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 of the chemical desert.

Before the colors of night blaze like the colors of day
You hear the drums of the sun’s rising—
The spirit voices in desert winds,
The desert winds in spirit voices.

Your senses are the things they perceive.
Like a desert you are everything around you.
In the arid spaces of saguaro, mesquite and Joshua tree,
You are pierced by the plumed arrow of peyote.