Yawning is like howling–
you cannot see what’s in front of you.
The fire pit devours winter’s oak;
the oak speaks quietly, removing only its jacket.
The cities where no relatives live, only friends,
have left you speechless.
The painted canyons.
A sprig of metallic sage in the pocket.
The emptiness of saints,
the one I thought I was–
rock faces, arms, legs,
a lupine tail wagging in the summer grass.
The cicadas in August,
like a Ravel daydream.
A distant buzzing hunger,
a schoolteacher leaves her meeting early
to rake marks on her lover’s back.
A shudder under the mountains
followed by a grief like no other.
Still, something makes you stay,
to see how the play ends–
like a priest on a midnight bus
watching the moon make the fields ache.