Rangelands

The river curved

informed by something ancient.

A vital wound

drawn out between swept hills.

I could die out here tonight

owning nothing

but the knowledge that ravens will find me.

Doomed cattle out to the West.

Doomed in the hands of the occupant grasses.

But the sky all church again.

​

​

Lucky

Dusk in the rift-valley now, saffroning.

Wild horses

reduced to spindle skeletal trees—

The chestnut one barely an existence.

In the grimly lit adobe,

Amargosa

he holds me

like a storm-charm.

This is not

what I thought I would be.

​

​

Slip

Color of rabbitbrush. Palest

of unsung jonquils. Awoke

still warm in it. His ever

botanical touch.

Silk, so,

thank the spiders.

To be called to—

ornamental.

All the Arizona

grasslands.

His hands in it:

redundancy of nicotine and vice.

​

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