Santa Fé

Jesús – who came to empty the septic tank,
his slogan, your shit is my bread and butter –
remember the torrent of coke he drank,
the faith he had, profanities he uttered?
The launch of Krisp-B chicken and garlic fries,
your dad, his face caved in, hunting his dentures;
we ate to camera, smiled, evangelised
gourmet pleasures prone to misadventure.
Beneath blue grass, red earth spawned termite towers.
We tracked the antique railroad south to Lamy,
cacti soft with snow our desert flowers,
yucca, chilli, guacamole, adobe.
A cable-car, the aspens’ silhouette
took us to heaven. Nothing needs accounting
with love’s redress, suspended above sunset
on the Sangre de Cristo mountains.