My grandmother is dirt and I am desert. Dusk. The datura unnerves me. I ride out to violate the baked earth. Hear the gray sage, how its hairs bristle in wind. I know distance is a woman I must cover at night, smoothing her clay shawl. I ride with my angry kiss in my mouth until I am forced to stop: red hollyhock against bright blue larkspur, tell me who has not been quieted by this. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU by ROBERT BURNS MY YOUTH by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES THE SONG OF HIAWATHA: HIAWATHA'S WOOING by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW ODES: BOOK 2: ODE 10. TO THOMAS EDWARDS, ON ... POPE'S WORKS by MARK AKENSIDE |