This next poem has a very long title,
which is something I probably got from James Wright or Robert
Bly.
Some go in for this kind of thing.
It's called "On a Dead-End Street Looking into a Horse
Pasture, I Celebrate Evening"
[DISTANT ENGINES ROAR]
Maybe I'd better wait for the planes before celebrating.
Can you hear me over there?
OK.
An odor of battery acid rising from the weeds,
a feed pail rattles.
They are sniffing darkness inside the stables.
Our shadows will not watch us much longer.
Darkness has begun to stalk the weeds.
Farm buildings on the horizon tilt like postage stamps.
Telephone poles prepare to jump.
Pyramids of silence, we cannot open ourselves.
The first time I noticed your hair on fire,
you made me face the sun.
Now in the greasewood, the loaves of darkness multiply.
Birds fly up like smoke.
I close my eyes.
How easy it would be to stay like this.