That time we camped at Elephant Butte,
New Mexico. We thought we lucked 
into an empty campground, took our choice
of spots on the point overlooking
the reservoir. Unrolled our kits,
strung up a hammock 
to take advantage of the view, 
argued over some incidental, 
like weed or whiskey (why not both?), 
all the while wondering where everyone else was. 

We never looked at maps, 
or read reviews, how could we know 
a summer scirocco comes blowing through
like clockwork at cocktail hour,
that it would wreck our tent, pelt us
with grit? For awhile there we 
were both blinded; I reached out
into the dust-batter swirl for your hand
any part of you to anchor to.
Touching nothing, I folded into myself, 
and waited for the wind to die.

How perfect that in just a few months 
we’d drift our separate ways,
finding it easy to slip into new lives
now that our pans had been scoured clean,
now that whatever we were meant to be 
had been cooked all the way through.