Gold

I

The western song ends, wings
of the green river open in grainfields.
Even now, there is only the long
reflection of stars on the valley floor
where we walked in high summer
through all that gold.


II

Love didn’t drown there
with the wild irises and the black
day moths. It just stepped out of the corridor
into a darker room. Your hours
come down to so much prayer,
blues riffs, afternoons at the kitchen table
I will never know of.


III

I still think, at times,
of the last light standing
long in poplars, and that wrenching
awe at your being there

and being there
in my arms
that made the water in wells
dream of darkness.

Deployed

It tells a story,

Your old forest-green sweatshirt.

It tells a story about the birth mark on your fingertip,

About your scarred elbows,

And about the summer after our graduation.

Something in its' smell of musty cupboards, 

Masked with Springtime Fresh Downy dryer sheets,

Reminds me of your red-tinged hair

On the bathroom floor when I trimmed it for boot camp.

I pull the sweatshirt over my my head,

The frayed sleeve ends covering my hands completely.

This sweatshirt does not fit me like it did you,

The only story it tells of me 

Is when I left it in the dryer and the logo faded.

But it tells of your freckled smile,

And it reminds me of your big, strong hands 

And the small bits of gold in your eyes.

No, this sweater does not belong to me,

So come home.