When We Had Things To Say
 
 
We make a map in Taos, ‘68,
a hitcher’s guide to the southwest.
 
In a room with candles,
you wear turquoise in your ears,
 
wind your fingers in my beard,
we have things to say.
 
Sangria in a tall glass,
your album and my book;
 
Dylan makes us poets for a night,
but only one is real. 
 
_Father, send money 
and he’ll marry me._
 
_It was your lie,
but it gets us to L.A._
 
Inside you is an O’Keeffe flower, 
I carve your initials in the wind.
 
Your taste on my lips, “Not now,”
so I find another time in the back 
 
of a pickup headed to the coast,
when we have things to say.
 
The sky stops where the desert ends.
This time our fingers separate,
  
you hide behind a black window.
I’m not there when you break.
_Father, send money.
I’m coming home._
 
Year: 
2016
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