TEXARKANAN J. A. Gaye
Constellations of ram’s horns—
His throat white on the hoofpocked
Barn floor. Winter, and the pores
Turning smaller still open, like jasmine—
Our flowered tea blossoms;
Steam is a peace. A pax rusticana.
I’ll take you to the mountains of Arkansas—
Assailant. Like a hoofbeat—
Palomino, pack-worn, pliant—
Pious. A buttoned-up nose, a navel.
Where the flora stop just so, like a suicide:
And fits his wrists through rotting slats,
To the snow peaked—
You burst thing. You splinterwind.