David Schloss
WEST TEXAS
They pitched about like tumbleweeds
Until she blew into his arms.
Next day she saw him , newly wed,
Holding heavy stones in his hands :
Such stones on that plain once had lived,
Then died, splitting their foundations,
Releasing their dessication
To those who would come among them.
He kneaded sand like a surgeon
Of water on the flat dry land,
In all the holes picked clean of stones
Removed then rolled back over them.
Then he leaped up and bought a cow:
On its back the ticks were flying ,
Like thoughts behind his dusty eyes–
But still there was something missing .
In an aura of late, last light
She found herself widowed one day,
Family albums, treasures buried,
Secret inside a bureau drawer.
She lived on alone, devoting
Herself to the reconsttuction
Of the vision of his life from
Dead soil in which nothing could grow,
