We try
by erecting great penises
of concrete
skydomes, hotels, casinos,
and such
and we explode
the night with wattage
akin to unknown suns
in other galaxies
Great deltas of platinum, palladium,
and arching upward argon.

Water wraps itself
around air and explodes
in mount fountain slamming
gazelle boundlessness
and still the earth
peeks from below
and extends its great fist:
the looming mountain ridge

old as a cowboy,
its knuckles bruising
the sky
ruddy shoulder blades
of western hill
muscling the desert’s suck up
and gritty kiss.
With the Hilton
at its thumbnail
and the Landmark shooting sky
right out of Diamond Jim’s hand
that hill just waits
there outstretched and quiet.
Patient, I suppose.
Sun lying dusty and rough
on its unmoved
biceps, the calm hand
that has won
over and over
again.