Bent Mosaic

An Arklahoma Pastoral

Tonight's for shortsleeves and a halo,
for riding a borrowed Harley
over the prophesied return to zero
that is the tan x = -arcsin x
of 271 between Talihina and Wister.

Tonight's for that rainy Sunday
in August 1983, the afternoon
who promised you could see this far.
You were listening to Schubert's Unfinished,
standing on your eastern porch
and pretending not to hear the Fisherman
as he commands you to joust
with your salmon brothers
and only allows you safe swimming
when you forget how,
pretending not to hear the hook baiting
with the blood of seventy million years
and your fame turning to irrelevance.

Tonight's for obeying that order,
for an orchestra of twenty-four chariots,
for miles that burst open like green pecans
and burn like the mandolin solos
on Every Picture Tells a Story.

Tonight's for turning Marciano,
for fading with the roar of the exhaust,
for praying to your own dust,
for your wheels that send you
over the new mountains you'll incise
with the clean rising of crimson rings on the sun.
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