San Bernilillo

When I come to you
Bisected, marked up and down
In black ink or gesso,
When the cats pray to their gods
And the road is a ribbon we later toss,
All the sky conspires to be
Unlike a horizon,
a line that levitates
And the space homes look like tents,
Something temporary, untethered
Before the storm
I said I would be back before then,
Tying all my noodles on sticks,
Listening to sounds and images
Dressed in light,
How close they came to saying something
I believed to be true.