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