not much flows in these coulees
except the cool dry wind
persistently claims ownership
refuses an easy hospitality

shrubs cacti grass
cling to the coulees
like a brush cut
that can't hide the scalp

the sky is a concave ocean
pulled toward the centre
of the universe always moving

prairie grass, sage and wild rye:
no sage would try to name
all the things that grow in these coulees

a coyote writes lines in the wind,
reminds me I cannot
both see and write, and still
I write in order to see

like a gopher, a poet digs
an intricate map
of subterranean lines
with holes for popping up

I see the shadows of birds
but I cannot see the birds

the sun soothes with the wind
woos me into sleep
leaves me woozy even

I dwell in the coulee that does not flow,
this dry, arid coulee where cacti flame

I wait for the coyote
I write nothing

perhaps writing will come
in February when I am far away

flowing with the lines of sun
and trails and gopher hollows
and the roots of cacti

succulents can find water
where there is none,
suck the dry earth
like an orange sucks my dry mouth