In the sun I almost believe that their grapes
Are for me, and that these bellows of valley
Have something in their smoke that I need.
The dessicated fields yield the strange scent of mint,
That twist where the whole scene makes sense,
As if I could climb on that ancient green Deere
And the doe eyes would not pull me in,
And I could begin to want things for myself
In all of my rustling with sticks
The wasp nests and bobcats sleeping.
I have stoked ineffable fires, in blind desire
To watch from the distance, with the dryness of tinder,
So the motions won't make of themselves a center
That lures me in with a peculiar rhetoric
Familiar enough to fix as my mirror:
The sage and gold grass, with horizons like home,
The one thing I've wanted, to be left alone.
