Cowgirl, optative

Timezra

I will die beneath a barley 
husk on gravel pillows somewhere 
soft in Fishlake Valley, stretch 
against cornfedcattle, curl 
behind a stone. 

There's so much left to tell you but 
propriety . . . 
I'd rather you than 
cornfedcattle love me 
for these rotting boards 
and ashcan smenge, call 
our labor lost in baling wire. 

Fence posts turn 
to cottonwood past 
the next ridge.  With miles left 
on Westgard Pass your subtle breathing 
soothes my shoulders, I would be 
content to wake and age 
in your embrace, to vanish 
in mosaic.