1.
memories are cobblestones;
like teeth in the earth.
they come at us from four sides of consciousness:
as the embedded thing in mud,
as the adobe bricks steaming in the rain,
as the smoke from the distant storm,
as the sour yellow smell of wet chamisa rises from the plain.
2.
adobe houses have a tendency to cluster themselves together wetly in storms.
the lashes of rain darken even the red dust under trucks and rusted car shells.
iron and creosote hang heavy in the air as
metallic wet steel wool
coagulates inside the larger particles of storm wind,
nestled into its made nest.
wet brine of a West Texas afternoon,
breath of the backyard through the open window, reading quietly,
chicken stock bubbling on the stove.
