Will Baker




But now the hills are green

Nothing was different when I was yet early and couldn't quit crying because I didn't know there existed or could ever exist such a thing as that.
I had to invent it—much, I think now and seemed to think then, to ask of a boy born into a 25-year drought.
For the hundred miles I could see in every direction: yellow, but not how yellow feels—how pit steel feels after held through
a crop and how a crop feels after it dies in a summer. Feet happy and bare through it despite, and the hope in sweat.
A car driven off the rimrocks to rest and last after its driver is pulled uncarefully from it and prepared carefully into another thing—how its passenger-side door feels.

Before pioneer and mountain man and indian with gun and painted painted horses
with gunpowder in their manes; before a train graffito proved elsewhere and a motel this where; before falling asleep in gunpowder manes and black faces seen
and reflected in lakebeds' faces where many nights were taken, despite ungiven.
How all of these feel in a library museum in the loft of which less old things make slow unparticular love

weather vane fulcrum gone pit steel blood red until I reckon it was racer red all along with a cock beak knows where I ought to go
or at least where I belong or might. I see your way, Cock, same as you see mine, but you aren't moving either, all racer blood red
down the front of my shirt.

— 2012