I'll read from American Barricade a little bit now.
A woman in the sun.
There's the shed, and behind the barn, behind the red cottage,
I wait for her in the fescue grass and the rye.
I hear it grow over me.
I wait for my friends in the distance-- on fire,
their full heads of rust.
I love how the clothing drips off them, I hear myself say.
And if the beekeeper doesn't come chasing behind
with a hatchet, I'll wait behind Cobb's barn
watching the distant houses.
She will come down this road.
My shadow is paving for her.
That's a stalk of honey, and that's rye grass
that grows from her arms.
She was raised in these hills, looking down on Elk Creek.
And behind her, that's bluegrass,
it's reaching to touch her ankle.