The light in the desert comes on slowly
as though we need to prepare for it
or as though it is a gift given grudgingly.
At other times the edge of the world
begins in a blaze brighter than anything
we deserve. Last night I dreamt my father died
as we tried to find where Robert Frost wrote.
We were headed to a beach shack
on the other side of a concrete canal
when he jumped, trying to swim beyond
the surge that flowed toward land
as though Frost wrote with the power