driving through Lynden, WA

As I drive through farm country,a damp reek brewing by the roadwayhits me. Manure, cut grass, honeysuckle,spearmint. The air feels light as rusk.I want to lie down in the newly turnedearth: this heavy figure amid the wheat-chaff and the chicory,while sunlight creeps up a mountainside

off in the distant whelm of colour.Each cemetery, flanked by poplars, looks readyto play as a chess set. A dozen washloadsblow on the line, sock lanterns ablaze,towels bellied like a schooner's spinnaker.In a dogwood's petalled salon, bees leavetheir pollen footprints as calling cards.

The occasional samba of a dragonflytightens the puffy-lidded dusk.Clouds begin to curdle overhead. And I wantto lie down with you here again in this boggy dirt,our legs rubbing like locusts'.I want you here with the scallions,sweet in the night air, to liedown with you one more time,heavy in my arms, and take root.