by Anne Stevenson
Somewhere nowhere in Utah, a boy by the roadside,
gun in his hand, and the rare dumb hard tears flowing.
Beside him, the greyheaded man has let one arm slide
awkwardly over his shoulders, is talking and pointing
at whatever it is, dead, in the dust on the ground.
By the old parked Chevy, two women, talking and watching.
Their skirts flag forward, bandannas twist with their hair.
Around them, sheep and a fence and the sagebrush burning
and burning with a blue flame. In the distance, where
mountains are clouds, lightning, but no rain.
From:
Collected Poems 1955-2005
Copyright ©:
2005, Bloodaxe Books
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