The plane took off from Charlotte. I could see skyscrapers and neighborhoods. Then the fields and crops. Then the Grand Canyon. Then the Hoover Dam and Lake Mead. Being in Las Vegas for the weekend reminded me of entering the ocean from a Hawaiian shore. Or it was the dry heat that reminded me of red rocks and gold nuggets, wranglers and thieves. Or it was the stripped mountains, no trees, no snow, that reminded me of a game of chance, the objectification of life. Or it was the dealer, Vicky from Grizzly Flat, that reminded me of a spaghetti western or the North Star.

I am ready for my trip to Las Vegas. Today I went to the post office to mail a few letters and then I went to the barbershop. There was a picture of Manhattan’s skyline on the wall. It might rain today. The barbers had the television turned to Fox News. Tarmac. Terminal. Tirade. Titillate. I spent two weeks this August in New Jersey. One of those mornings, if I can remember correctly, I walked down Faculty Road, I went through Princeton toward Nassau Street. The security guard. The gymnasium’s windows. The variant architecture. The gaudy construction. I woke up early to see the sun come up over the Highway. On the way home, I drove around Philadelphia, I sat in stop and go traffic for two hours at the Nice Bridge, I saw the Potomac River. I ate a peach and some blueberries.

sow sow sow sow sow sow sow sow sow sow sow sow soul

Sometimes I encounter poems that I know were written for me, had to have been written for me.