I want to lie with you on a hotel mattress
and listen to a turntable play Sweetheart of the Rodeo.
You should hear this country music, and find like I have,
desire’s poverty in slow, drawled lines.
Midnight weeps like a steel guitar.
The mountain you want moved keeps its radio tuned to night.
I can burn its brush and vines, and everyone will know what dayrise means.
Just watch me on the television bolted to the wall.
Leave your sandals on the green rug by the door,
and come near as water on sleepless banks of a lake.
We were meant to open eyes on the horizon,
why not on each other?