Five cables hold the power line
to the ground by the soccer field
and swing set by the Protestant church.
Still the pole bends like the flexing
wood of a bow drawn back
to the cheek of a hunter,
but there is no need for
unsightly acts like that
out here.
Coyotes leave tracks
in the wet grass between
warehouses and water towers.
They stay far enough out
for the most part nobody
bothers them.
Two old men roll
in the gray mud
wrestling over
possession
of an hourglass.
The last time I remember
rowing a boat I was twelve
in a canoe with my brother
and we drifted under
a bridge where
two figures stood
making conversation
in the shade.
I get stitches
in my worst dreams
usually above my left eye
in a cold room
painted faded blue
with fogged up
windows.
Stone dust covered boots
remain the only thing
between me and this
mountain path
where birds hangout
after eating their fill
from the river.
Out here as storms go
it typically only rains harder.
The cars slide by in shallow water,
while the morning moon
stays hidden in the sky.
