There Is No Malibu Cred in Santa Fe

This is a place lousy with gods, some
hard against injured canyons cut deeply
by water silvered with little Neptunes
and blue ones invisible against far-away mountains
known only by their heavy footfall, while others
shake their skeletons on desert nights, the black wind
making rare music through bones sounding of
flutes and animal calls. They can dim the sun pale
or light the moon radioactive, a phosphorous white
for the coyotes’ rapture, all jerks and body slams
on a high mesa tonight.

This is a pantheon too old to be patient; it says
Be on your way, for in our sky alone
do stars sway.