My son is smoke and I am the night
in between Albuquerque and Gallup
swallowing everything
even the stars.
God. The sadness.
It’s an elephant and I
am the dirt
beneath it.
The ghosts have assembled
and they’re staring at me
with songs instead of eyes.
I’m salty and unstuck in the jukebox
and there are not enough quarters.
If there is a sky
it is made of black feathers.
Don’t worry about the bitchery.
In the morning it will melt into pillows.
Sleep if you can and I’ll put barbed wire
around your dreams
so the coyotes won’t be able
to sneak in and eat them.
Today is your birthday
and the love surrounding you
is plenty spacious
and wilderness pure
and hot blood strong.
God. The love.
Look at all
it slays.

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