I was low on gas, but I was buzzing with five
books like bees’ wings, open in my head.
Wind pasted my hair to my face as the
Owens Valley spread out before me.
Ideas rushed my cheeks with pink
like the interior of a tide pool:
the wet rock
the loose floorboard
the sap on the cone
the trees that move their arms.
Oh, believe that we can hear them sing!