by Damon McLaughlin
That sunrise there, what used to be
the Collombs' corrals, another dump,
this vague pasture of dawn-stubble
and bulb-of-my-nose, kitchen light
virga over my flannel's beige fields,
this shirt older, softer than our marriage.
Those darknesses of mesquite,
our acacia, which weeps over
goldfish, Betta, hamster entombed
in a toilet paper tube by little hands,
the dogs I took someplace else.
The Rincons rising more
slowly than you or I have come to know,
Cowhead Saddle sagging
like a deadhead horse, moon blind,
ringboned, incapable of walking on.
And walking on.