Coming to

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.