On peyote you cross the Devil’s Highway
to the mystical oasis of Quito Baquito,
where the roots of cottonwood, mistletoe, and tule
tug at the springs beneath a chemical desert.

Before the colours of night blaze like day,
you hear the drums of the sun’s rising—
spirit voices in the desert wind,
desert wind in the spirit’s voice.

Your senses dissolve into what they perceive.
Like the desert, you are everything around you.
Among saguaro, mesquite, and Joshua tree,
you are pierced by peyote’s plumed arrow.