All the essentials were there, the river thin
from distance in the canyon below, the house above
the canyon and the old man pruning trees. Whatever
he felt left out appeared, the carnival band
in step on the dirt road, the road remote enough
to need a name, lovely girls asking directions.
The old man’s house was the last one. After that,
the road forever in the sun. He looked down that road
every noon and nothing came—mail or flashing girl.
He needed a dog but that you couldn’t provide.
In time you gave him wisdom. A way of knowing
how things are from photos. He stared long enough
to make the photoed live. A farmer told him
pears grew big in ’97. Children danced at dawn
and horses, the horses ran and ran. You let him
ride one and you helped him learn which woman
in one picture loved him at the Baptist fair.
You joined him one day at the river. After hours
of trout you walked together up the long slope
where he pointed to his house. He said ‘Come in’
and built a fire and you said ‘I live here too.’
Some days, the road fills suddenly with clowns.
The carnival band plays every tune you love.
Lovely girls stream in. You are dazzled
by their sequins, and the odor of their cooking
makes you laugh. Other days, the road hangs
empty. Not even birds can raise the dust.