His knuckles:
Rigid domes,
The frayed fibers of
His hands
Exposed
The rouge,
Oklahoma clay
That composed
His peeling palms.
His wrist
Canals
Ran
River Red
Divisive.
Through them
Coursed
The way-ward
Inner wanderings
Of his
Indecisive,
Fleshy dreams.
Purple sunsets
Beyond
Hushed
Guthrie Galaxies
Rooted his
Back into the hillsides
Of every
Native American
August.
The cushion of his lips created
Ridges and canyons
For riding bare-backed:
Flesh to flesh--
Gulfs of hot breath
And
The wear and tear of
Unrelenting
Western Winds.
His words were
Autumnal
And
Opaque:
His tone,
Depth,
Pauses
And breaths between
Were
Perfectly sculpted.
His chest:
A roaring Kiln.
All day he would
Crease
And
Bend
His O's, and A's
Into perfect loops, and tails, and curves.
In the evenings,
They would deliver themselves to me.
And I would pour water
Into their basins:
Birthing flowers
In their
Fertile
Spaces.
