into that good night

He says, she named me Dylan Thomas

Really, he tells me, it’s all because of her

and how she dragged me through Texas

all over up Nevada

through the desert heat.

her own little Dylan Thomas sweated outside truckstops

while she picked up 12packs of Tecate

and boxes of Entenmann’s

and cans of pinto beans

and gassed up her honest to goddamn El Camino

like she was wild Texas Hollywood for real.

then they jetted on through Utah

and down the four corners

under an empty turquoise sky

and there was red clay everywhere

even started growin in her little Bob Dylan’s hair

as she fed him pretzel snacks and James Joyce.  


And they settled somewhere south of Durango

where the red clay of the Animas River baptized him

and he found litters of stray kittens

and ate crab apples with his face puckered up

and fed himself Ginsberg

and disagreed with Hemingway until he met Jake Barnes under an old silver birch.


When he sleeps finally in my red sheets

after too much cerveza

and pen stains on his hands and mouth,

I sometimes brush clay from his hair and his beard

and wait for him to slide gently into that tiny death and

finally in my everlasting solitude reading

Lorca.