A movie playing on the courthouse lawn,
                                                specked light flooding
                                    the summer air.
John Wayne in a panorama of desert
            against the stone wall.  Beyond this city
the actual desert stretches
for more miles
            than we have ever known what to do with. 
Like the air an empty category, unthinkable
alone.                         
                                    Enough cannot be said of his horse
in its unfathomable redness,
            surveying the prop buffalo in the basin,
                        the rigor of the battle dead.
You said there is nothing true of love
            that is not also true of the Waffle House.

            In the real heat some kids are dancing to an unheard music
in the grass,
            in the light before image,
as though to say these, my feet,
            are the circumference
of my world,
            as if to say I. 
                        Stars drown
like pills
            in a soft pink mouth. 
The gold dust in the projector light
            has yet to stop falling.

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