I like Indian country
looking like my studio
where only the right things matter,
easier than feeling
an equivalent desperation–
shudders through alcohol and
through my terrible hands.
Life is a mess. It just is.
I like the way my breathing grows
deep and low
when a horse presses a forehead
hard into my shoulder
as I turn away.
The weight of that warmth.
Because they are always bigger
than I am
and stronger.
The way they are so much stronger.
I am drawn to gutters and
wrecking balls, explosives
powdering history.
I walk right into his arms,
time after time.
That love as an interior force
can be so elastic …
orphan poems 