Car parts among oil cans
Old telephone cable spools 
turned picnic tables
where we shot the moon

If your eyes glance away
I see it, looking at your watch
Am I speaking too long, too fast
Not fast enough

The wind comes in
from the southwest
Black angus in a field of buttercups
Poke berries in a dry rot tire

My sister says I’ll listen
to you honey but she’s not the one
whose notice I want
cradle hand, queen mother, her.