no one to write my jacket cover blurb, what I haven't done,
I'm the stick of Spanish galleon, hinted at
limb sticking out of phantom canyon,
it might have been anza borrego desert, or perhaps
a bone of bighorn tantrum. and the pool is turning green,
we swim Indians to the white-halled language wards.
carrot cake at work, I finger my way through a white rose,
hovering next to the old scantron machine
it's someone's birthday, sign of the cross
on the genius of fill in the blank
I'm ignoring the bookseller who wants to buy back old books
ghost sleeves every one of them.
we don't need a coat in the desert, arms technique me
with broken glass of the old miner's shack,
derelicts one and all. The jackrabbit,
homesteader of chapparal, my dog in the desert,
tied to a pole
bungee cord on her throat
rescued by a heart doctor who was on his way to shoot skeet
and doubtless break a few hundred thousand intelligences of rock.
What murder do I live
what kindergarten of coffee do I spill before
lurching off to teach another bonehead english class,
while the broken coyote poets vowel their languages
they rummage through the garbage, the ruins of Indian villages in the wash.
imagining they alone taste ancient wisdom,
Custer himself said he knew the game, old body bloat.
Sitting Bull and the white horse. We are related by opposite wings,
and the tension in tentacle and tendon is a difficult thing. Weigh the garden
of the shoulder, lean against the wind
sail inland, the water's warm and not too deep
an easy thing to open basket of wine
let the dark red join the sea, salt your deserts.
c. 2008 Ruth Nolan
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