Tonight, the sky the color of a velvet
blue boot, thrifted, long lost. Cast-off
clouds, the remnants and remains
after seven wild nights of cord-cutting rituals.
Wild mustard in the windrows, moss, cedar ponds,
rosary beads and wishbones in the window.
Those cast-about stars. The king of threads
makes blades of grass. The night you unlocked
the secret we swallowed, the oyster’s
sea-sky velvet. Did that ever happen?
My mother said she had red eggs for breakfast.
Last night I heard the coyotes two-by-two in the distance.
I remember ten years’ worth of rosary beads
and wishbones in a jar in the distance.
Is that how it happened?
Outside they’re burning leaves.
Faraway, the owl at night, the short-eared owl.
The dog that cries when the little boy
who lost his dad whistles. I thought I’d whistle.
That might have happened.
I thought we would gamble together,
ice on our tongues, dice across the table.
But that never happened. Wishbones,
the rosary beads’ descant. The wind through the trees.
A blue manatee Christmas ornament,
rosary beads, blues, brined and salted dreams.
Wild mustard, loss, the devil-may-care cedar waxwings.
You woke me to a clarinet solo.
Then we went for a ride, rode double,
because we had only one saddle.
