Bright scab of track.
Bright stitch each train
rips out. In negative
 
degrees, metal cowers
as if a god had threatened
to curse it,

Plugging in the portable heater and pulling it toward my legs I remembered
The braziers under the round table at the finca you brought us to
In the Spanish hills. It was January, a searingly cold afternoon, and in a cave-like room

Is there a secret map of the lives of men
In the slow drift of stars and clouds of stars?
Can I build a house out of hydrogen

This vast meandering flat-bottomed gully
much smaller than a valley, with a hump
of rock spined all its length is home to—what,

The guinea hen of Manalapan
has a wattle like a turkey, but cut short.
Her feathers have spots like streaked paint.

Horses with wings and horses with shoes.
White stallions sacrificed to Roman gods.
Scythian kings buried with fifty horses.

Somewhere (where) in between say 
Index and middle fingers, to one day- 
Wake up and find growing a new rather 

all
over
the
body
finishing
touches

Several eras have come to a close
In this land of extremes. In our own day 
We visit the slow process of decay 
As it moves in the sun to decompose 

Cold fog hovers in the coastal highlands
Mixed with lingering rain. The inert stream
Quickens: water fingers the creekbed sands,