Postcard 124

You are the high lake and You are the cradle
You are the cold deep and You are the clear springs that feed
You are the split lip smile of wild and You are the salt skinned christian child
You are the arching rider and You are the tugging underneath
You are the high plains spirit and You are the dirty spoon in milky bowl
You are the raw gravel-set heel You are the gap in teeth
You are the end of two straightblack lanes and You are the shimmering heat
You are the broken yellow lines and You are the coffee stain on passengers seat
You are the click in the dark of the thermostat and You are the rattle of keys
You are the thin wear of that brown flowered dress
You are the suitcase under the bed.
You are the rain on the creosote and You are the goatheaded thorn
You are the thin song of plain gray little birds and You are their thin reedy home
You are the thunderhead and You are the cicadas return
You are the rich air of imminent storm
You are the cold beer behind the wheel and You are the itinerant soul
You are the grit on sunburnt neck and You are the sundowner song on radio
You are the single lucky gas station at night and You are the bent pack of cigarettes
You are the red spattered glass and you are the crumpled bird roadside
You are the careless grace of the broad naked sky and You are the million stars across your face
You are the pink scars on your elbows and knees and You are the pull at your heart