Have you ever had an inspiration
that brushes its lips across the rites of spring?
I have; it lives in between my curtains
and in the phosphorescent bends of the leaves
of the oak tree my daddy wanted cut down

When I was little I pressed a paintbrush
Flat against the stark expanse of the Arizona sky
and waited for it to heat up
and for the camouflaged animals to come out of the dark

waitresses used to carry me around those restaurants with the masks on the walls
when desert days withered into desert nights.
but i burst open in the sunset light of a Cape
dotted with stars and crab shells,
burst open like a cactus smashed into oblivion
so that all its water can drain out and feed the earth

I haven’t written a poem
in a long, long time.