I found the evidence in Arizona.
Among the rocks, beneath the thorns,
Covered by flowering red bushes,
Your Connecticut driver’s license
Tossed out of a car, landing here:
Six foot one. 185 pounds. Brown eyes.
Black hair. Movie star looks.
Both mother and father.
Woman and Jehovah.
I never believed in Jehovah.
Before I came to the desert.
The valley fills itself with voices.
The sun stares through stained glass.
Red rocks leak energy around us.
I search for their name on my laptop.
No record. No source. Nothing is there.
Forty days of fasting just to get here.
I howl at the Pink Moon Saloon.
Coyotes and ravens like bouncers.
It’s my turn to turn my back to the city.
Refuse to turn stone into bread,
Or turn wind into angels.
Still, I would love to fall into their arms
Feel their fingertips save me.
But I guess I’m just not like you.
I’m here for another 40 days.
The only thing going back home
Turns out to be your lost driver’s license
Your name and address
Handwritten on an envelope
Return to sender, address unknown,
No such number. No such zone.
This is like looking for Elvis
In a room full of Elvises.
Yet I’ve never been more sure
That you are here.
You are as certain as an exploding sun,
As surprising as music on a SETI array,
As fresh as the scent of ginger
That explodes out of my handful of manna.
When you are as new as the deep sleep of an infant
With my fingers behind your head,
It’s time to come down from the mountain,
Head back to the bricks and snow up north,
Learn my lines for the second act;
Utter a word that has never been said.