The piled leaves prevent entry to the great hall
where a six-foot Santa greets us
and barely-clad bronze women stand defiant
on tables holding branches and swords
and the chandeliers swing in tune to music
that never plays. Wooden bears chain-sawed
in New Mexico and End of the Trail sculptures
slouch in every room. As the sun rises
above the Guadalupe, axis deer gnaw flora
and produce fauns, riveted by the rush of water.
In the basement a salt shaker army
quaking in porcelain, closed books
with stories to tell, a player piano
playing Begin the Beguine as we stroll
the memory mile, so many of us dead,
so much suffering; not just because the ice cream
comes in impossibly small cups,
but because the butler’s pantry is full
of cobwebs and cups of dust,
not a butler in sight.

Like the place below your neck
where your blouse and collarbone meet.
Like eyeballs springing a leak.
Like the impossible honeysuckle
covering a hill, little licks of sweetness.
Like touching a dolphin.
Like being a lucky motherfucker.
Like dashboard baby shoes.
Like realizing, “I’m possible!”
Like scorched asphalt through sandhills.
Then finally, Marfa.
Like the sunny side of decrepit.
Like the scattered skimble-scamble of chic shacks.
Like the splintered mind at work.
Like sputtering utterances.
Like a fall cushioned by
moonbeams and pine needles.
Then the crumpled place you are.
Then a presence like smoke.
Then you emerge from the ragged mist.
Then a lump in the throat,
a bottle full of rain;
one fuck, and nothing is the same.
Then babies arrive.
We start over again.