The Inherited Farm
I wish I could have different ideas than about myself,
Sons of Texas.
We sleepless three days moan in meditation.
Room empty – a coffeepot and three foot siphon to the side.
The room-tomb become a cavern.
We are crackpot custodians,
anarchists of the chain of geodesic domes.
None of us have made the Waco postcards.
Like a little bird in my hands she swoons to me.
Why are the Sons of Texas so sexually dimorphic,