Beauty is Death Valley in the summer heat,
as it's hot breath exhales
along the honeycomb of borax caves,
carved like hives for insect-men,
throwing powder, bone-dry,
into dust-devils that dance
along the well-worn trail,
where mule-trains hauled their bitter load,
and the sun bakes moisture upward
to the clear and naked dome of sky,
leaving a crackle-patterned earth,
desiccated arteries upon the skins
of ancient deathless gods.

Beautiful nothing
and glorious emptiness,
decorated with sterile stone
and massive peaks of sand,
where every now and then,
a bit of hidden life peers out,
then, remembering it lives in hell,
retreats until the bitter cold of night,
when heaven's tapestry engulfs the sky
and flaunts its beauty as reward
to all who have survived the day.