I so wanted to be you
wanting

the rotting wagon tongue the
lunar dust

I wanted your west
your dying towns

the salmon that swam
upstream

and the girl that giggled and scissor kicked
in your drink

because

I'm a poet and what might
have depressed others

was lush and fertile landscape
to me

but when I traveled your America
I saw saw it

through much cheaper sun glasses
the kind

you might buy at a truck stop
or someplace

like Wall Drug
or an Indian smoke shop

with a neon war bonnet
and that

made all the difference

I cleared all the rubble,
turned it to mulch,
a soft bed for blooming
above my chest,
behind my ribs.
A garden grows
where grief once rooted,
touched by morning sun
and the warmth
of summer’s start.

Something gentle
is growing in me.