I said
goodbye
to Beale Street one year,
eyes hurting
from the painful contrast
of stark white on black -
dividing-lines with
no intervening warm colors.
West of the Mississippi
the Trail of Tears
meanders,
silent imitation
of the great river,
a different culture's Babylon
although dry now,
bones' dust
underneath retreating feet.
Trading riverbanks
for new beaches
I arrive in a land
of names in
an ancient language.
Some nights, Vallejo's ghost
still silently rides
his ancient ranchos,
sagebrush plains
now buried patiently
beneath the unending streets.
(2002)
