We’ve traveled to a field with its inner
servings of sand and wolves. The sand is owned and never

appears on a map because the owners want its hard
tender invisible. The space trembles and is built up and seems

eliminated. It has come to rest and I am in a hurry
to listen. Nothing might be more

fragile than smearing infinity around
and waiting dutiful centuries. Sun hovers

every high and low, posing and pointing as necessity.
Eros I once believed could make me

an incredible promise. Sincere, I took it. Of course I
also learned no love

loves a stain. In confidence, we discussed it. Previously. We hid
unattended until finally our settlement of us

decided to stay. To clarify, to celebrate we canopy
in the desert where the sun singing sand on a loop

becomes sensemaking. We are dirty and casual,
the day getting rich quick

on distance. Making a note
about a note and whatever

he says, whatever I forgot to unknot, I tend
to sift through the waning

light. It’s another summer bending; it is nearly thirty
years. There’s a room here for washing

one’s feet. I don’t know if you need to be clean.