I walked the high desert ranch roads, dodging
tusked javelina, coming upon families of pronghorn,
watching the seasons let loose greens and yellows--and the cream-colored
blossoms of the Spanish Daggers. And the heavy blue
sky held my body like a limitless lover.
Far West Texas, a kind of heaven, a place
pouring light in through the top of my head,
descending faster than the tequila shaken with sugar that I'd order
at 5, when the bar opened its doors, and soon the doors of my body
busted open at their hinges, and the men knew me
only from the darkest region of their blackouts. I lost out on so many
glorious daybreaks, under sheets and trembling. Then by noon, the ranch
roads calling, and I'd search for God again who persistently pressed.
Finally, I'd fall far enough, wake with a mouthful of light.