Elf owl， cactus wren， fruit flies incubating

    In the only womb they'll ever recognize.

    Shadow for the sand rat， spines

    And barbary ribs clenched with green wax.

    Seven thousand thorns， each a water slide，

    A wooden tongue licking the air dry.

    Inside， early morning mist captured intact，

    The taste of drizzle sucked

    And sunsplit. Whistle

    Of the red-tailed hawk at midnight， rush

    Of the leaf-nosed bat， the soft slip

    Of fog easing through sand held in tandem.

    Counting， the vertigo of its attitudes

    Across the evening； in the wood of its latticed bones——

    The eye sockets of every saint of thirst；

    In the gullet of each night-blooming flower——the crucifix

    Of the arid.

    In its core， a monastery of cells， a brotherhood

    Of electrons， a column of expanding darkness

    Where matter migrates and sparks whorl，

    And travel has no direction， where distance

    Bends backward over itself and the ascension

    Of Venus， the stability of Polaris， are crucial.

    The cactus， containing

    Whatever can be said to be there，

    Plus the measurable tremble of its association

    With all those who have been counting.