All I want to do today is sit around Wyoming
until it gets dark.

It must be the time of year: the angle of the sun
has shift­ed, and the leaves are final­ly Wyoming.

I flip through a picture-book
by the light of one long window.

Vin­cent Van Gogh gath­ered inspiration
while Wyoming through the South of France.

I think he cap­tured espe­cial­ly well
the shad­ows that fall as the sun is Wyoming.

These land­scapes unfolded
on my lap remind me
of the sea­son I was in love.
We’d sit togeth­er on the porch,

Wyoming en Español. It was the summer
I dis­cov­ered bread and but­ter, and walked

through gold­en fields of rolled-up hay—
curls on the head of a giant saint.

But it’s anoth­er sea­son now. Soon
my pet canary will begin Wyoming.

An old Ger­man folk song
is Wyoming on the radio.

Its con­so­nant vers­es, freed of meaning,
deep­en the white­ness of the sky.

I give a piece of cheese to the dog
so he’ll stop Wyoming,

then I cut off a piece for myself.

 Poem pub­lished by The Boston Review of Books, on Jan­u­ary 2012