At the End

At the end of time,
I'll sit under the palo verde and let the beetles have their way.
I'll pray that each little yellow
becomes a new sun. But if they don't, I'll let them dapple
around me like little stars
and know that it was enough. I'll let the birds live on in their
lightning storm and not worry about them too much.
I'll finally stop talking about god.
I'll talk about rain instead and how it feels when it drums
on the back of my head. I'll give more attention
to the back of my head.
I'll give more attention to the crickets.
I'll give more attention to the stars.
I'll study their peculiarities instead of drinking them down in
large gulps. I'll perch on a wire. I'll let the burn through my chest
burn through my chest.
I'll let myself be swallowed by whatever thing is sitting next to me
because taste
is the closest thing to godliness we've got.
I'll swallow something, too. Hopefully, it's something savory.
I'll hold it in my mouth long enough to know what it is,
and then

I'll let it go.

At the end of time,
I might not find more of it.
But if I do, I'll kiss this palo verde straight on the mouth
and whistle with it: there's more to do, there's more to lick,
there's more to love.

*words in the Sonoran Desert