Wrap up every rock against the weight
constraints of the contract. Leave one ghost
in the granite garden under the broken palo verde
and the other on the maple table by the stove.
Consign the gravel drive to the monsoon and make
a list of tasks. Check off the holy ones, the woven
hammock’s creak on the porch, the baby javalina
rooting up your lemon tree, the story you tell where
coyotes come in to sing your daughter to sleep.
You can leave the sad efficiency of the cougar
who took your neighbor’s dog, the night fires, the sting
of inattention and the coral snakes that fly.
Load the rest on the truck and point yourself east.
Trade this lovely box of hostile turquoise
for a witch’s stove, an elm tree and an ordinary view.
