In the desert are
some sad bones,

huddled in groups
of threes and fives.

Don't think
about them now.

About their ribs,
their spinal columns,
their grinning skulls.

Don't think about
the bone infant
spread around
her mother's arm.

Think only of
the field,
the restaurant,
the hotel.

Think only of
the industrial siren which calls
bones such as these
to wreck themselves
upon the desert floor.