Mexico Seen from the Moving Car

THERE ARE HILLS LIKE SHARKFINS and clods of mud. The mind drifts through in the shape of a museum, in the guise of a museum dreaming dead friends: Jim, Tom, Emmet, Bill. —Like billboards their huge faces droop and stretch on the walls, on the walls of the cliffs out there, where trees with white trunks makes plumes on rock ridges. My mind is fingers holding a pen. Trees with white trunks make plumes on rock ridges. Rivers of sand are memories. Memories make movies on the dust of the desert. Hawks with pale bellies perch on the cactus, their bodies are portholes to other dimensions. This might go on forever. I am a snake and a tiptoe feather at opposite ends of the scales as they balance themselves against each other. This might go on forever.