I drive this brown place

Dry air sucks me toward the stark pines in concert
on the mountain, silhouettes of women re-assemblng.

I love this brown place where flashes of strata show flesh
centuries of bark and moon. I drink this place

like hard water.

I navigate an older childhood of alcohol and noises

behind adobe walls. I climb crumbling brown earth and

love what others discard. We assemble as slim vials
assemble as stories. I drive the whimsy map of maternal

pines with tiny nuts to bite down on.

This gritty ride is nearly angelic. Assemblage. My hand

on the steering wheel, a learned behavior. I saunter

in exodus, dressed all in gray with flames of Fall

breaking from mottled cottonwood.

Enchantment the given adjective. Brown and lavender

hues like birds that punctuate the night. Book splayed

on the passenger seat beside me. Mud clarified with rain.

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Vessel

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As Mourning Doves Persist

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