Dare you to put an ear to electric fence wire.
At sixty-seven a man cannot remember
a single gadget from childhood.
I am walking... sometimes loping around
a .3-mile track in my sagebrushy north pasture.
I am waiting for the rapture of dog laughter.
Solemn black cows offer weak perspective
to what the sweep of sunlight means.
Though he does not know it, Wang Wei
walks beside me, huffing and puffing poems.
My body contains Mongolian and Gaelic rain.
At sixty-eight a man names horses he will not
ride in the next package-of-bones century.
Sometimes I jog a few steps to feel the wreckage
we are born towards... or to steal lies from the dead.
I am waiting for a thunderstorm with oranges for hail.
Sometimes I weep for the fragility of coyotes.
I own all the flimsy excuses of a second rate accountant.
Wang Wei walks beside me, praises honey in tea,
recites poems bright as ancient noon light.
There are dangerous love songs in electric fence wire.