Today,the birds and emotions are blown off course
underneath,the weight of dry ground
mystubble field of a face in the morning
mirroris a rumor spread by fate⸺
lovehas a weird way of acting cantankerously
forno earthly reason, it belongs to its own
flotillas,uses the same migrant crossings
thesame felicitations as the wind.
Wecan be hard contracts, stranded without
aninkling in our estranged country, America’s
leastalarming cloisters. Or, we can exude the
ambrosiaof a Colorado cantaloupe which we
nurturein the fields come spring. Are you getting
anabundance of me? It’s a rhetoricalquestion.
Ican’t get enough of you, the harvest of you
theblue twisting river that flows from
theheart of your high country down into the
greencelestial underground of my mind’s eye.
Withoutlove it’ll be winter on all the things
weset aside, the sky will recant much of its border
bluster,magnitude and guile if I didn’t know
betterI’d assume we were that cauliflower
cloudscape,or two Chihuahuan desert seeds
inneed of rain, a river to cross instead of mercilessly
humanwith our birds for eyes and the medicine of
sharedsunrises that for no earthly reason
startle the heart.