Field of Vision

Hunters would venture toward residue and signs.

Fresh scat of buck.

Rhododendron, rub lines, and tracks in the dirt.

Walled in by mountains, primed to something sweet.

The missing person in a face.

I see shapes in the distance, four-legged and running.

The sea birds would stand on the wet rocks and dry out their wings.

A lover of porches.

Modest cities whose whole expanses you can see from the freeway.

Sun on the smaller houses with roofs made from corrugated tin.

I rinse myself.

Only goal posts and roses from here on out.

The bleached, knotted hide for the dog to gnaw.

The seventies wallpaper lining the empty drawer.

No one would see the whole city growing inside.

Alive beside a swing set.

I could see the drugs in my lover’s skin and eyes.

I watched the dog busy himself for a whole hour like that.

The coyotes sounded from beyond the trees but were seldom seen.

They shone a light on the breaker box when the house went dark.

We had so much in common I felt.

Seeing how he wetted it down to prepare it for his teeth.

What lives in you fluctuating.

With a metal comb, I would untangle his hair.

I was in trouble for years so kept driving.

What happened to my eyes lately, I could see the way they framed things.

Circular and partially hidden, and everything named.