On mescaline

it is not unreasonable
to traverse the desert
trying to touch
a light on the horizon.

(Thank god I was sober when I packed the water.)

We discover
it’s not utopia

it’s a small sign that says,
“Warning Active Air Strip.”

We sit down to rest and laugh. Time seems to pass
until two high beams light us up.  Dana says,
           
“Is that
a fucking plane? Fuck!
Can it see us?”

Which is a ridiculous question because
she’s wearing a hat

made of Astroturf
and somehow
I’ve found my way into
a bright orange jump suit.

The plane a silhouette
against the sun,
rising, buzzes a blur,

lifts off over us
and tips its wings
in our direction,

which is the pilot’s way
of saying have a safe trip.