It’s cold but we’re not cold just arguing
About the magazine and saxophone
The swing of the record coming up yellow
It’s not tacky it was a different time
Theatre used to mean something
I think
I’m not saying theatre is dead
Or you should throw your brushes away
That we can acclimate to death
Like weather or coffee
I’m not trying to fight it’s just the time
Swallowing me whole every day
People are dying every day
Regardless of how much I tweet
Or not every American day
Gentle thoughts croak and harden
Like your arm under me
Sorry I think I am crushing you
Don’t call it a border skirmish
These pines and needles
Take my eyes into your shoulder where they belong
At the back of your neck these two rivers meet
Behind the bunkhouse there is a trio of eagles
Marking the dead end at water
All winter I came to know them each
And listen to elk across the river
Walking slow circles in the football field
Nobody at the helm you told me once
Like it was suddenly apparent the
Empty clock faces crying for arms
Hollow like a bowl
However they are
The fact of things in the world
Time for all artists to make their mark
Hell of a country
Calf opened beneath the flag
Coyotes marking nervous bloody circles in the snow
Is it wolves in the wind
Or your own seashell-talk
Is it a time for carving
Or are you just happy to see me
Walking across the dream to the car
Last chance Sinclair in the rearview
The road passes under like water
So I become the river in reverse
Climbing mountains and condensing
Pouring out slow dances in the kitchen
Dragging my axe problem into the woods
Carving through little green hands
Remembering the way
Home leaves after you
On your way to the sea
One root in your knife hand
Go on then O Artist
Get on with your mark-making
Get off your ship of thieves
Clear that forest for the fig trees
I used to think it was enough
To feed and fall amongst the pines
Tasting the fruit because I could
Testing the business end of this pact
This dreadful commerce between us.