Bovidius

Ruminations of dreams
dawdle on grasses I only know as an undulation of weeds,
do they
dawdle on dandelions glimmering here and there
behind the barbed wire, the citrus-tinged
reticulum running
heartbeat over hillock to gully beside a
highway that pierces straight—

I thought it was a recollection of California:
an all-dayer northbound from the San Gabriels,
the Tehachapis receding
into desert blasts,
the musk of it
taunted me, I had to
look for verdancies, or so help me,
the gods of Folsom and El Dorado Hills,
the visible nothingness I had to
fill with an expletive, or two, or whatever,
I was possessed, but

it was an island, the genus Americana:
late afternoon
was on the fountain grass,
the tattered tresses of rainbow eucalyptus,
finitude came with a
light rain and a
necessity to parse
the bitter tastes of rainbow eucalyptus,
you forget
citizenship to it, how much more to
topsoil to porous lava rock to pilgrimage,
blindness and basalt,
I fell
to brooding
on the myriad superficialities for a spell,
e Waimea mea degluptea
ad hoc or hydroplane or a
mother cow
behind the barbed wire,
russet cheeks laden with water,
she was an utterance of a countryside,
as provincial as they come,
the quondam sights
moving
in metamorphosis.