Poem 145

a poem for my love on a day that feels like summer is here already…

The summer sets colossal –

Rolling over and over the incredible heat

The mouth of the desert kings were quiet

Dry and witty, your single bloom

The proof of lifetimes catching the certain seed

Most likely to live a second summer—last the chill

We stand at the edge, where there once lapped sea

Our minds a hollow port of memory—the summer sleeps

Deep below, a water-table, under our bustle, quiet-cool

Where once the sun was something lovely

Then hot and hateful, eating up all the leafy greens.

We are summer-swept, midday slept,

A hopeful violet in a dusty reign. We summer-wept

When the water came, ten thousand years of rain

When the sand remembered the sea again

When you & I were we again.

–ECW

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Poem 53 Revised

All the history I know

Is the way the dust blows

Sanding the surface to shine.

A west so wild the night howled

At its own shadow and slept

Belt-buckle out to witness Sirius.

The metal on the tip of his boots

An oasis of light, with chinking stroll

He stole the summer and planted

His tumble-weed seeds in Mojave, with love.

Pan wanderer, look away, from this city

Lawned in suburbia. I remember the desert.

I remember the heat. The heartbeat

Of the sun on the valley

when we wrote in ropes the west wild.

—ECW

Poem 53 EditedPoem 53 Original

Poem 65

a second draft. i’m unsure.the water and the wake

I remember oozing from the crack in her. She was a tree limb; she is a ship.
I can still recall the white milk spilling out across the sea. A ship with a
wooden mistress leading us starward; arms outstretched and I came
from the deepest hull where the water beat drum-desperation against her broad sides.
I remember clawing at the gravel and reaching the caliche. Fracturing
every fingernail on the desert backbone and wishing still there had been water.
I reminisced of coming up for air after swimming for centuries in blue-bleak
blackness and gritting my teeth with sand for sanctuaries. Oh pity.
How many years did I live under-sod before they unburied my bones?
How long can I hold my breath; waiting for the tide…
–ECW