___

Let’s start

 

 

here: Locusts burrowed, holes
along the sandy trail. I count
the veins in a dead

one’s wings, coo
at the iridescence, the glittery
eyes. One day soon, I’ll point
a coyote den for you. Watch

your surprise. We’ll talk
in metaphor to decipher your
vim, my veracity, this verdant
place — until words
falter, until we’re speaking only

in tones. I could live
with robins, bathe in lakes,
pick apricots in July—I would be
happy like this. But

for you. Wisteria won’t
flower here; I’d rather the trumpet
vine anyway, a tower of small

orange announcements,
and when light strikes
a deal with the coming

night — then, I know I’ll
know and let the shine
blind me blind
me blind—

__

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