BY FRITZ WARD
Tonight, the storm makes a de Kooning
of the sky. Clouds the color
of your mother’s necklace—
let’s call it ferocious sensuality—
the one we lost between Amarillo
Over and over. Silently. The clasp
breaking. The way an & never would.
if we grieve for what chokes
us. Let’s coax
another year, one more frontier,
one more fuck
this drowning— Or
we could stop right here, between the sky
and the road-dead deer.
Here: I’ll be the desert.
You be the plains.
Let’s lie down with all that nothing
The wind will wear our promises down
to bone beads
small enough to string—