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Collected Poetry

    (rd king dot net)
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Beating Heart, Dancing Feet  

  Orange 


When the sun finally enlivens both the wrinkles
in those hills and these row crops squatting
on the valley floor, the Holstein find themselves

standing, freely, in a flushed and retracting
light.  All things—except the river—again
have their shadow and the heat is both five

degrees over one hundred and five degrees cooler
than an hour ago.  Sweat catches in the fibers
of my brow.  Sweat runs down our breastplates.

And in the loose effort it demands to be
in this place, one suddenly realizes a wish
to praise some thing for the relief soon to be

delivered as the day ends and the light sends
a kindness most splendid and attractive to behold:
we see other men in their trucks and cars

as fixtures at the wheel, intent, and enduring
this exceedingly heated series of unheralded events,
making their way somewhere certain, in salty awe,
      and alone.



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