In the empty spaces between the pale adobe faces
Of buildings, chile ristras drying in bunches in doorways
Lift on the breeze that, on the twisted back of the evening,
Carries an ancient lament across the desert.
After the wedding party, led by a mariachi band
Up a sandstone staircase, falls asleep in white sheets,
The land recalls the rhythms of a thousand forgotten languages
Pressed by weary feet into its surface.
The dry aged hand of the wind with a hundred whistling names (all forgotten) — stops
To remember all the tears it has collected in its palm,
And once a year returns them to those who stop here now,
Strange tongues opening to catch the drops.
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