Arizona, the Sun,
and What That’s Like
April in Arizona, the orange blossoms
The orange and brown bricks, the lazy half-blue
Thorny behemoths of the Great Mexican North,
That blood color, so much on so many white walls,
The smells of creosote, the coyote sounds at night—
This place, everything, gives itself freely to you.
Everything sings its own song, strange and plain.
But a cloudy day—don’t believe it:
There are no cloudy days.