pastoral

my words are the hands
of empty arroyos,
fingers where
kindness slipped through,
not even the dampness
of a kiss to remember

my words know the
washboard stutter of a dirt road
getting closer to nowhere
but the thinness of the horizon

my words are the nail that strings the wire
between cedar posts, the wire
that cuts out the past, the wire that sections the future

my words carry
purple aster, fleas bane,
lambs tail, and tumble weed
the soft and the sharp
a crazy dust devil ripping
up sand, spreading seeds

my words whiten
in the silent glare of the sun
becoming less
but more obviously so