A little house, on a shady street in Lincoln, Nebraska.
I sit at the kitchen table, writing, my window on a wild
lawn, where birds sing, and I hope for thorns and blackberries.
She is in another city, on the banks of the Missouri River.
Sometimes I think of her, the useless wishes that I could
have followed her, to not to have once again been left behind.
It is the end of June. The whole horizon is swallowed by
a black and purple storm cloud as the sun fades away,
darkness with gilt of burning red and orange, like an angel.
The rain pounds down as I lay in bed, sleepless, restless.
My overgrown lawn will drink it all up, grow knotted, fecund.
I hope for thorns and blackberries, and I hope for cuts and blood.