Golden Hour

My hand out the car window:

            the plains carry me home in their

                        stillness, everywhere are open palms

of wheat-yellow. Between each

            telephone wire, I undress my

                        memory to when he saw the sky and

land touch in prayer, the birds

            flying in the shape of a quick fuck.

                        That foolish, foolish boy branded by

yellow at golden hour before

            slipping into a black suit—the night,

                        paparazzi with readied eyes flashing

again, to see him. And I see him.

            The prayer never returns, answered.

                        The day is a trick. A dirty, dirty trick.