WEBVTT

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This next poem has
a very long title,

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which is something I probably
got from James Wright or Robert

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Bly.

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Some go in for
this kind of thing.

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It's called "On a Dead-End
Street Looking into a Horse

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Pasture, I Celebrate Evening"

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[DISTANT ENGINES ROAR]

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Maybe I'd better wait for the
planes before celebrating.

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Can you hear me over there?

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OK.

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An odor of battery acid
rising from the weeds,

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a feed pail rattles.

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They are sniffing darkness
inside the stables.

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Our shadows will not
watch us much longer.

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Darkness has begun
to stalk the weeds.

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Farm buildings on the horizon
tilt like postage stamps.

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Telephone poles prepare to jump.

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Pyramids of silence, we
cannot open ourselves.

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The first time I noticed
your hair on fire,

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you made me face the sun.

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Now in the greasewood, the
loaves of darkness multiply.

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Birds fly up like smoke.

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I close my eyes.

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How easy it would be
to stay like this.

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