Haze... fire in the Cascades.
The air is filled with sad cow songs.
Baby walks from the shower,
moist, like pineapple cake.
This is the nomadic margin.
It's a rattler under the porch August,
parched ground, coyote teeth for luck,
an empty-of-horses corral.
The neighbor's girl can't stop
eating dead flies off windowsills.
Her wrists are healed from dull slits.
I have not finished making my own failures.
I stare dog-like at icy stars.
Someone always catches the midnight flight.
I've learned the staying... domestic growl and grin,
to run alongside winter wheat fields,
miles from blacktop, to stop, shuffle,
jab, and spar the wind.