no matter where i go, nevada will always be home
All the history I know
is the way the dust blows
cutting at the face of the earth.
from the sand-sculptors I find
to capture filthy the free—
Send off didactic calligraphy—
the lights seem to me brighter in my wisdom.
Boyhood and summer becomes them; I am
not a boy… I can’t appreciate this moment:
westward-boot leather-toe, like you can.
Wrinkled furrows of manifest, resent not
only the meager syllabic meanderings of verse
or worse, the sounds of unraveling
minds. mines. Mine. We don’t speak
of the syrup we pulled from the Rockies—
Instead revel in man’s triumphant sun-bulbs
blushing dry meadows with life. Nothing survives