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rel="nofollow" href="#ulink_1bf5174d-60db-5f2c-be37-a40b0c3461f6">DISTANCE BETWEEN DESIRES

      From the moon to the end of this poem

      hums the distance between desires.

      In troughs of night Jasmine slept,

      numb from the consumption of rays

      from the moon. Through to its end, this poem

      fends off desire. A toast to the heavy

      drum that pulls us daily and urges that we

      hum the distance. Between desires,

      men scoff at the moon, hung lightly to shine

      plum-dark nights, as they measure breaths

      from the moon to the end. Of our poems,

      ends tossed out to hold them off, we hope

      some may say they rumble on and pleasingly

      hum the distance between. Desires

      bend us and bend. Doff your hat, where I come

      from, a show of respect. Desires plumb where we come

      from. The moon to the end of this poem

      lends soft light. As one desire leaves another

      hums the distance between desires.

VACATION

      I crossed the Mississippi

      for the first time

      early our second morning out, driving

      slow, and after five days of driving—

      driving and visiting,

      driving and car troubles,

      driving and myriad signs inviting:

      COME SEE THE WORLD’S LARGEST INDIAN RESERVATION

      GREEN PETRIFIED WOOD NEXT RIGHT

      LIVE ALBINO CAVE BUFFALO

      FREE 72 oz. STEAK

      (there’s always a catch),

      driving and car troubles,

      driving and driving west,

      driving and not to the ocean yet—

      I can’t sleep in Albuquerque.

      Yesterday I realized

      the land between

      here and Santa Rosa

      (where we lost

      the transmission

      and a day) is

      too bare and flat.

      The horizon’s not cluttered or

      broken,

      brought closer by trees

      or anything.

      I wasn’t meant to see that far.

      My mother, father, brother,

      grandmothers, and aunts—

      everything excised.

      I can’t feel it anymore.

      Distance grows in the bones.

      Tonight I feel the room

      spinning like after a bender,

      but I’ve been sober

      since Georgia.

      I can feel the world

      wobble under this bed

      off balance because

      Georgia’s gone to oblivion.

DUENDE

      Tonight you want to walk your mother

      up the dune to see the stars and down

      to the beach to meet the ocean; I wade

      into your desire to warn you that the dark

      of your mother’s night is darker than your dark

      as your dark is darker than mine. Today the surf report

      cautions, Don’t turn your back on the ocean. The dark:

      an ocean for us all. Even in this small beach town,

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