This is my new love,
It is hard to explain. Maybe the poet is dead- one of the bugs flat-smashed on my windshield.
Maybe it was just a dream- sailing through the cold of mountain passes, or the sagebrush of the desert.
I dreamt it, then. Dreams of baby cows, of rusty tractors, desolate gas stations.
– the way the trees shimmered- all the millions of trees I seemed to pass-
dandelions yellow one day and nothing the next.
There are no words. The poet is dead. This is my new love.