A movie playing on the courthouse lawn,
specked light flooding
the summer air.
John Wayne in a panorama of desert
against the stone wall. Beyond this city
the actual desert stretches
for more miles
than we have ever known what to do with.
Like the air an empty category, unthinkable
Enough cannot be said of his horse
in its unfathomable redness,
surveying the prop buffalo in the basin,
the rigor of the battle dead.
You said there is nothing true of love
that is not also true of the Waffle House.
In the real heat some kids are dancing to an unheard music
in the grass,
in the light before image,
as though to say these, my feet,
are the circumference
of my world,
as if to say I.
in a soft pink mouth.
The gold dust in the projector light
has yet to stop falling.