we went past the last light in town,
your hands planted
on the steeringwheel
like two feet stoutly
in the earth;
I think now if I pushed
down
the window the smell
of dusty mulberry leaves
would intrude on our not talking.
earlier by knight’s landing we were
preceded
by swallows flirting
with the air
and a scar of purple jetstream
crusting the
old
blue
skin
above the buttes.
we’re past
all that.
now the air on my sleeve is
the color
of the last light in town,
the neon elbowing my arm:
everything’s a dollar or less
you know
I don’t believe that.
tomorrow with red evening through
the parlor window,
you’ll be out back with the weeds,
armed at all points and sweat
inside your clothes—
my arm red
in the last light on the sill,
the curtain in the corner
ballooning
like a woman pregnant
with
wind.
