Anne Boyer

 

 


You Will Want Like Cowboys


I will want like splinters,
astonished spit, also like alphabets and minnows.
 
You will want at smallness,
also squirreling across the wire.
 
Wantings in the wilderness!
What did you think,
 
words?
You've seen it all before.
 
That's my last duchess—
all I want I've learned from her.
 
I want all I've learned from her.
Like Goya and church
 
you will fever like derangement.
You will lick no less
 
the ecstatic, and you will grow no more
accustomed to this dirty purse
 
than I to breathlessness
or pavement.
 
There is Kansas in the wilderness.
There is not cloudy.
 
All day the fingering, there your gaze,
there I will saddle up
 
the pillow, buckle, bobbin, tongue
I wanted from.
 


Sunsets Off

Nothing, too, is a subject:
dusk regulating the blankery.
Fill in the nightish sky with ardent,
fill in the metaphorical smell.
 
The horizon leaves the same
impression as runway: jet but air.
I wake to a grain bin, the end is near:
jimson and ditchweed, hog and trough.
 
The first beer can is making
high hopes out of everything.
No wheat is safe from chaff of this,
hullwrecked in Hugoton, thinking of sod.
 





Biplane
"raise high the roof beams"
Medusa hauled out her musclings
and stole a femur or some great leg or other.
 
None the ladder, she is a barn raised from contagion.
 
Then from the sky there storms the stormer,
plum-scared and Perseus. Watch that horizon
 
for all heads fall there: all ruins: all breaks.
 
In a plain democracy blue skies are axes, axes are soap.
Perseus is a stuttering tendency. Medusa is a sod ear,
 
and the corral shudders with ponies: winged things.