Night Being a Moonlit Ordeal
Someone is always coming in the door,
leaving the door open, letting
the horses out the door to cross night swiftly.
Night being a moonlit ordeal
where we gather salt in an ocean-licking mist.
Beautiful words are spoken
as if they are honey, and the tongue an apple
peeled and prepared to eat.
By beautiful you can see I mean
the words are not sweetness,
but two parts wild spinach seed soaked in three parts
cultured milk. I drove the truck
up Pajarito plateau to be noticed,
but instead took notice of those I did not know.
It makes me feel both important and lonely.
Like dream after dream of men
begging me to love them and to take
hold of long grasses with my hands.