this is where we look for things
1.22.01 - 1:43:47
rancho de taos, august
I'm alone all day.
In the afternoon, thunder.
The birds' cries become more numerous,
like first drops of rain,
and I go outside to look at the mountains.
No one knows I do this --
not the man I miss,
not the friends who will return this evening.
All around their house the sky
stitches together loose scraps of the dark.
I feel small, and purposeless;
even the ant, rust-colored, dragging the torn
wing of a dragonfly across my shadow
and into the sagebrush, has more to do.
I tell my heart
to be patient, that joy returns,
but it doesn't want to listen.
It wants to tell me
that the storm comes toward us,
heavy with each named grief,
and slams all the windows
in the empty house.
