I drove you through the canyon
waiting for a cattle drive
to the spot where you’d be
buried within a year.
To be a stone or
a small stand
of delicate
desert grass underfoot
and underhoof
not quite deep enough to be cool
not like the river of God
or
the swimming hole I never
found
but like rain on the mountain
juicy lukewarm drops a steady
hand a small sip
of what it would be like to crack open all my ribs
crawl out
and join in the everything of everything.
