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I'll read from American
Barricade a little bit now.

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A woman in the sun.

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There's the shed, and behind the
barn, behind the red cottage,

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I wait for her in the
fescue grass and the rye.

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I hear it grow over me.

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I wait for my friends in
the distance-- on fire,

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their full heads of rust.

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I love how the clothing drips
off them, I hear myself say.

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And if the beekeeper
doesn't come chasing behind

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with a hatchet, I'll
wait behind Cobb's barn

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watching the distant houses.

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She will come down this road.

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My shadow is paving for her.

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That's a stalk of honey,
and that's rye grass

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that grows from her arms.

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She was raised in these hills,
looking down on Elk Creek.

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And behind her,
that's bluegrass,

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it's reaching to
touch her ankle.

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