the sun’s shoulder is a

                 graveyard

laughing in tiny bits

of rain. a train, forgetting itself, clatters

and a loud river pays no attention.

i wouldn’t have

                   walked but there was

                                                   no other

                    way

                    to smother the barks of startled fields

                    or

fling the blanket from the wheelchair’s

legs. the salad for lunch was

                                            a

radio full

          of static: shingles punched

                           into

          confetti. i remembered an old tarp

in

the garage sagging as if it

                                           had

myasthenia gravis

but useful as a double shot. and

newton,

               sweating under shade

               in

wig and frills, forgets to eat;

forgets his

              gullet is a blunder-

                                buss

                                refusing

                                gravity;

forgets what a pocketful of snakes

will do to anyone’s

                  weather.
it was as if

the simplicity of wanting gravel

                         to

       resonate

       until it crumbled

was like begging soil to turn on its

own.

          and hatred sprinkled

          on corn muffins

          and elevators,

          men wearing

          ten-gallon hats a

          century and a half

          ago, gila monsters picking

          their teeth with forks. so i
lay down and

pull the desert along,

drop

the cattle skulls.

a pocketful of

silverware

would only scorch

a mountainside

with clouds hopping away,

laughing as children.