The Second of Many, A poem for Dallas

Golden Evening Hovering Over a Dallasian Pond

billowing, I want to name you, painting

melodically your many-subtle hues

especially as your light departs

you’d be alone if not for

cold, coarse, rock reflecting.

Light even rules the night,

rules conspicuously in absence.

My great uncle fell from a hayloft and died

on his pitchfork, light was everywhere

spilling from his pores

I wouldn’t mention it

except there is this old rough red barn

standing on a distant green hill and all the animals are dying.

Not violently, but slow, three-pronged, sure

as the gravity that pulled

my great uncle down

To interrupt, I’ll end, a Transam truck

and the smell of dust.