Gregory Crosby

MIDNIGHT AT THE HOT SPRINGS

    (Tecopa, California, Summer 1997)

Only one
of the bathhouses
was open,
the sexes split up,
immersed in divided
cycles. So,

we let the girls go
first, and we drove
a ways to walk
the alkaline soil and see
the stars, all
of them, lying

on our backs where
nothing grew, when

someone said,
If only it were
the reverse: that
instead of light
it was sound that
traveled forever
throughout
the universe

all the words
ever uttered spread
like audible smoke,
diffused amidst
the slow rush
of galaxies, beyond
the rush of blood
in our ears.
       
(If only: for then
even this would not
depend upon paper's
brittle shrine
for immortality.
Even this would
echo, infinite,

like our breath
inside the void.)

When we returned,
the girls were
singing German songs,
voices lilting, lifting
through the transom,
over our silence,
our paused,
wondering heads,
their harmony rising
upward, out --

but only for us.

Only through
the magnanimous air.

Location:	Las Vegas, Nevada
Occupation:	Freelance writer and Editor
Email:	doctorgogol@yahoo.com
Publications:	Red Rock Review, Tintern Abbey, atomicpetals, etc.
Chapbook:	Satan's Skull Glows White Hot
Awards:	Two-time finalist for Nevada Arts Council Fellowship

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