Wraparound

what do you call that mist, that late Sunday afternoon light coating the hills and cattle, all
the tops of the trees, and the rush of the highway; what do you call that coat of heaven, the cattle,
heads and stomachs swabbed in that sun mist as they graze heavenly while
looking downward
and you stand there, a body by and by, eyes turned
toward the tunnel of your other life

Beseech Him to furnish you with a love (the sea god Poseidon in bed between us) —
someone you can lean on, someone new who will teach you, bring you back
into the earth and those hips

            but you move away like a fish with jewels
            a centaur's wretched beard
                        tangled, carefree —
            your hand
            raised high and limp
                                    (that we were soft together
                                    when it came down to it,
                                     it was that simple)
                                                                        Spirit:  highway
                                                                        five gnawing white spots in the ocean
                                                                        you see the ghost of him all the time
                                                                        gasoline and knuckles,
                                                                                     a heady bandanna
            climbing fences made of the promise of azaleas and roses