Arizona

Tread on the comet's tail
And slip on the ice.
No traction to be found in space,
Where salt grain stars flash a firefly song
In a vacuous lawn of pitch.
Pitchfork prongs stab skyward with
Gramophone flowers by needlepoint leaves:
Open bar for bats and bees.
A kick of dust, a mountain tall, looms-
Majestic above the city flats.
Tiles of copper shavings coat the land;
They glisten with mica brightness and mosaic.
This clay pot land, sparse of tree,
Finds ample way to shade and home.