Green Dawn and Clear Sky
From the hunch-inward of sleep,
where a horse on the Kansas line
crow hops on furrowed ground,
I remember, you, baby,
muscle and sinew,
tight jeans, ripped shirt,
one breast bare,
brow sweaty, laughing,
Go ahead... have the last word.
Arid Great Plains years: your blush
and my ache. Hay and whiskey-scented towns.
Sketchy motels and shady bars.
One man, Copenhagen-bulged lower lip,
buys crimson barn paint, gets to work.
One woman laughs, dresses her children
in attic fashion out of dusty trunks.
I remember us, baby, restless.
Loose-jawed dogs in farmyards,
panting, children nearby
with toy pistols, battered lunch boxes.
Wind gusts from the Dakotas.
A drive into town. Children
cascading down the slope
of a broken pioneer graveyard.
Green dawn and clear sky,
my recklessly used, disjointed
body rolls and rises, takes heart
under scalding shower water.
The melancholy language of dreams
is hunger from the dredged up.