WHERE THE HEART IS

    by Bates Corlieu

At night Bisbee looks like a mile deep lake
with a drowned village twinkling up from the depths
sometimes I wish it were

Home could have been a dark and spongy forest
on an island in the St. Lawrence
but I was still restless

A plastic bag clings like a perforated blister                               
to a blade of yucca
along the west highway

How fitting I should end up here among cactus
wind pushing     conjuring     hurrying stones
that don’t budge