Spaces on this earth tattoo their soiled skins with prints,
our opened paws, brief feet, steps of years,
motions drawn upon immutable circles—
The moon as orange and fiery as the sun itself,
one night, parked on the canal side of a dirt road
behind stacks of sweet smelling hay,
the engine of your pine-green truck still warm,
breath leaving no room for wondering
how many more nights like these we might gather
before crop dusters wear us away:
Amor, speaking Spanish in my distance,
we choose to break the morning,
and the moon fades because we close our eyes.
My sweetest love, you have not gone for weariness—
you’ve just gone.
Published in Palabra