by Taylor Graham

    We've thrown it like a blanket
    over so many nights.  You say
    we sleep better under its geometric
    weave, the grays and tans, the woolen
    off-whites as if we pulled Sonoran
    sand over our shoulders, settling
    into each other, knees and haunch,
    the awkward elbow, as if goats
    on triangle hooves found their way
    down charcoal canyon walls in the dark
    into this pattern.  Simple grazing,
    lip tooth tongue searching perennial
    grasses, the sufficient forbs.
    Someone wove all this for us
    in abstract.  By daylight
    you'd swear, there's not a blade
    of living color in this scheme.
    But every night we settle under it
    and dream.

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