dragged a baby blanket steaming like a horse.
As for me, I hid in a train as rattly as the blackened earth-line,
thinking no one would find me in the cattle-whiff straw.
How face down the gluey specters of the twelve regrets?
Somewhere a deer was being torn apart.
I was a bell lying in stubble, scratched into a faint monotonous sound.
Of course I was right in the middle when lightning stunned the barn:
I myself was the dry-rot wood, the crackle.
My ghost fled to the fields of the six wheats.
*
As if in an ecstasy of soft disease,
gray threads swerve down from blackened clouds over Santa Fe.
But I am all bravado now at eighty-three, with (I think)
three winds left to go to the sea.
Feathered in the corrupt finance of destiny
I close my eyes and flap like the empty sleeves of the air.