The Walk Home

My patch of sky is

split wide open; an 

egg cracked, spilling 

its whites onto 

a hot 

iron pan. My 

finger tips 

are black 

spindle branches 

trying to dip 

into 

water above 

me. And 

everything is 

light and everything 

becomes 

more than 

anything 

I ever 

expected. 

My patch of sky is like

walking into blue. 

Like 

leaping headlong 

into 

it; like diving. Like 

dying. It 

makes me want to 

make 

strangers care. 

It makes 

me want to 

scream.

Open 

wide. Eat
blue.

I want to weep when 

I look out and up

and in-

to 

it. 

I don't know your name; I need you

to know.

I am not just living.  

You and I are not 

Ordinary. Our sky looks to us like

Something endless. Something

We can 

disappear into.

The egg yolk 

sunset of 

every

Cowboy's 

dreams.