Moonrise, Hernandez, New Mexico, 1941

If there were feelings
for the sky, the word
would be "wilderland"
or "scorched landing."

A raven night with only
ghost colored crosses,
a sweating adobe night,
the wind drumming a

scat of sage and paloverde.
Nothing can stay inside
on a night like this,
Arms ache for some

thing to put around that
will sing to them like
an old guitar or
a woman’s body