And then your Buick jumps
across the rails as straight
as sonar at a mirror-glint:
there are long rat-tails that kerosene
has swatched across the sky
and a sound
like someone’s strangulation;

Spraddle-legging through thistle and dry
dissilient milkweed pods. The bunch grass boiling
up beneath his boots in humps, splaying
like surf along a shore. Cursing himself,
the mumping rifle balls, the slickleaved shade

It is a viscous form of self-
propulsion that lets the feet grip
the floor as the head
lifts to the door,

There is love only
as love is. These
sense recreate
their definition–a hand

The man sits in a timelessness
with the horse under him in time
to a movement of legs and hooves
upon a timeless sand.

Were you guys lucky, too, to caddy the light
of freshly-sprinkled fairway delicate and bright as eye of an
Indiana owl
or glitter of fish flickering in the Shedd Aquarium of the
imagination

Our matchbox bedroom in the loft above your
sculpture factory
Turns magical at times
Behind its dark blue Druid door.     Last night,
Inside you, sweetheart,
It felt as if I were coming from the soul itself.

My mouth is snow slowly caking that stiff pigeon.
My mouth, the intricately moist machinery of a plant.
I have forgotten if I ever had a mouth.