Through the window the piñon

with its precious nut

each which must be picked and peeled

by hand darkens in bloom,

and the old dogs called in

sleep, and the soft adobe cools

by lamp to crimson

and, too, darkens.

I am in love and no one I know

for a good thousand miles.

What the hell,

freedom to scale,

nor anyone to call to.

For months I have lived for the day

i could reconcile my anger

and my wish simply to start over

as your lover.  And now with my heart

content as the ancient ocean,

both figured into desert

and alone, I release you as heat

transforms the apricot and peach

trees painted on the desert

of the year I hurt,

each beetle, centipede,

black widow, what I am

supposed to look out for,

like the rattle,

who contains my death

more than any other

I also love and more since

to love is to love the most

reared on this red earth,

with its heaven dark

blue like I imagine the mind

because the body doesn’t have to

question day all night

nor the invisible

moon on whom I practice

your face.