This, the last night of September
Moon over mesa in cool light no
Crickets left to serenate the
Stars.

Ruins on ruins on ruins
The past is but a sigh
If I could give up anything though
It would not be goodbye.

Ruins on ruins on ruins
What music drives you mad?
If it wasn’t for the loneliness
I wouldn’t be so sad.

Ruin of sunset ruin of
Moon night, last fragment
Of September in the air
Light as a feather and
Crisp as snow.

We gain immortality through death
Like snow through splintered sunlight

It’s as big as this farm field
The universe, after harvest
Tufts of emptiness covered
In first snow. Only the breeze
Of the cold afternoon
To rattle any **** that
was still left near the barb wire
Fence. All the trees were naked by
November. I went further. Supernova.
Where once a glacier slid. Now
Cows ramble on the hillside in
The unfolding evening. In and out of
Light, the clouds are coming back.
The deep ravine is hungry for snow.
Dusk is a ruddy purple and above
The geese are flying south.
Near a frozen pond I watched
The night come on. A constellation of
Branches. A nebula of memory.
And I was young and
And the moon was old. And
Love can only stretch so far
Before it shatters or recoils.
I took the cow path back home
Underneath the snowy stars and past
The woodpile through the gate.

Dorothy is out in the garden again
Pulling the weeds out from the ground
Weaving between the green corn stalks
Like a spider spinning a web.

The brown adobe house rests quietly
In the shadow of the turquoise mountain
Which gathers the onion shaped clouds
With its immense emerald hands.

And Dorothy is laying down now
Beneath the sagging green corn stalks
With one ear planted in the soil
Listening to the distant song.

The song of the earth is thunder
Echoing down through the canyons
And the sky is filled with darkness
As the cool wind begins to cry.

Dorothy is out in the garden again
As the clouds roll down the mountain
Pulling the weeds out from the ground
As quickly as she can.

I’m finally waking up here is my mind--
A scattering of dreams, confusion.
The desert spread out, in soft clouds
I am awake here is my heart, the horizon
The only thing I can understand, now.
Pain is pain, be gone.
The smattering trail of mesquite smoke
The rising star
The thinning sound of thunder;
The sudden certain mountains
In the early morning rain.

All I am is a burning leaf
A sudden flicker, a short glare
Against the window of this existence;
Some sort of ghost, like the winter snow
Melting into a puddle in the far field.
When the gray fog turns into night,
Just at the edge of the forest.
All I am is already gone, no
Breeze left even to take me.

with all this noise
A flower
lover of light
with all these years
only minutes less
brittle, stiff
the wind
myself
a shell scoured
a lover
some
**** left
to grow then die
yet

I hold too much in my head
Similar to how little
the desert recieves rain. Sometimes
I need to go into the mountains
and drink to feel peace.
I drink until I can begin to write
Then the words spurt how like a
Flash flood. I think about the horizon
and the breakdown of poetry
Everything mus
Even the brittle brush and stone
it's almost June, the mesquite
living is pain, it's every
barely languid
suffocatingly benign;
let it end here no go on
like last years flowers
this years doom.
I've been much further since leaving the ocean
the whole of america for me, to devoir
the stars and their stars
andtheirstarsandtheirstars
isn't that joy, begin