The older I get the more room I need;
if not where sand spins itself into a knot,
while the thunderclaps wait their turn
to pay the debt the drought left behind,
then where I am able to think in solitude,
without suggestion or dissent; instead
with my own life and past speaking freely,
making my mistakes and living with them
I don’t always have time to find an empty road;
to see both sides of the storm, the top and the
bottom, like a curtain in a sparse auditorium,
where the rock sculptures await another brush;
the curse of being the muse of an imperfect artist
with a perfect vision of us and all our secrets; I
don’t always have time but I will, the only question
is when, only when
It seems very few people want that; instead
they crowd like thorns on a cactus, but they do
not protect one another, only drawing blood;
it’s the way they live, as if life is not about
natural causes; there has to be a reason that
lives on the streets, walking among them; but
I can’t live like that; I want to die slowly, not
like a creek as it dries but instead like the wash
it leaves behind, remembered for the love it
held within its banks though he left no names
for you to call upon
I saw you once a thousand nights straight;
I remember each one like the moon I saw
through my windshield; it was staring at me,
telling me to trust in myself and not to worry
that I took my eye off the road for a moment;
the road that had an exit I almost missed if
not for the way you looked at me; I knew it
right away and the way you sat next to me
in my mind wide open; you became the space
within; the west flatlands, where I traveled
alone, but you let me go my way because
where I went was where you wanted to go
and I didn’t even have to think about it