dragged a baby blanket steaming like a horse.
As for me, I hid in a train as rattly as the blackened earth-line,
thinking no one would find me in the cattle-whiff straw.
How face down the gluey specters of the twelve regrets?
Somewhere a deer was being torn apart.
I was a bell lying in stubble, scratched into a faint monotonous sound.
Of course I was right in the middle when lightning stunned the barn:
I myself was the dry-rot wood, the crackle.
My ghost fled to the fields of the six wheats.
As if in an ecstasy of soft disease,
gray threads swerve down from blackened clouds over Santa Fe.
But I am all bravado now at eighty-three, with (I think)
three winds left to go to the sea.
Feathered in the corrupt finance of destiny
I close my eyes and flap like the empty sleeves of the air.