Just before the sunset behind the Bighorns-
indigo in the east and azure in the west
and a molten-flamingo pink burnout between the
paintbrush white of every cloud-
greens slapped crazily up to that deep
purple mountain range, once slicing
through the floor of some ancient Sundance Sea
Just before I rise from the dinner table and walk across
the deck
and the yard
swimming in grass and thistle and wild asparagus and
chickens,
and your
nephews
and here I am with your sister
she lends me her flip-flops
says something about her feet being tougher than mine
and we walk out to the road to look at that sun
set
and just before that, at the table,
I remember the way you
smiled like
I
carried that same sun on my face
and said something
that made me willing
to unbuckle fear,
as well as
my everything- and
I’ve never enjoyed a man’s tongue
in as many places but dear
Christ
you wander
so easily.
