Elf owl, cactus wren, fruit flies incubating br In the only womb they'll ever recognize. br Shadow for the sand rat, spines br And barbary ribs clenched with green wax. br Seven thousand thorns, each a water slide, br A wooden tongue licking the air dry. br br Inside, early morning mist captured intact, br The taste of drizzle sucked br And sunsplit. Whistle br Of the red-tailed hawk at midnight, rush br Of the leaf-nosed bat, the soft slip br Of fog easing through sand held in tandem. br br Counting, the vertigo of its attitudes br Across the evening; in the wood of its latticed bones-- br The eye sockets of every saint of thirst; br In the gullet of each night-blooming flower--the crucifix br Of the arid. br br In its core, a monastery of cells, a brotherhood br Of electrons, a column of expanding darkness br Where matter migrates and sparks whorl, br And travel has no direction, where distance br Bends backward over itself and the ascension br Of Venus, the stability of Polaris, are crucial. br br The cactus, containing br Whatever can be said to be there, br Plus the measurable tremble of its association br With all those who have been counting.