The moon is fine
it’s the stars I’m worried about,
in stagnant constellation,
waiting for their cores to collapse.
I want to sprint clear across the country,
steer a Ford truck through deep winters,
fly a steel rig clear across the Atlantic,
to blow hot wind through fear like
eight hundred paper tigers.
I am itching to move,
it’s making me brave.
A broken compass, I think of her,
lost to islands in blue
on the run
watching the world ripped apart
You have spent your life a pineapple bud
sprung out from the badlands.
Last night I dreamt you were a cow’s skull
breathing heavy across stiff landscapes,
painting my hands thick,
into new geometries.
In the heatdark swallows
we waited for mountain lions
gray great and hungry.
You handed me things:
We ate the dark of it
the smell of earth,
the taste of dirt exploded to blossom.