I had a dream of spring-time, wildflowers
thick along Highway 16, junipered air
mixed with appetite and greening.
Hoot was standing up on the rise
waiting for Sam Bass to happen by
but Mozelle was glittering
like refracted light, from his lips
and fingers and eyes.
Wallace Stevens was a mean old coot
but choose your fictions well, boy—
'just puttin' one foot ahead
of the other is a act of faith suh-preme—
And if you gotta believe in somethin'—
Let it be yellow hair! O, Let it be yellow,
let it be yellow, let it be yellow hair, he said.
When I looked back, Hoot was dancing
alone under the pale morning light
over the bridge and past the creek
on a crooked voyage home.
I remembered where I was going.
The wind whipped over my skin.
Cicadas chirred their love songs.
Damp oakwood musked the air.