Appaloosa
This is just for me.
Hay-light. A place for the fork and shovel.
More than a time of year: ammonia smells, the loose
spotted country. You will ruin it, talking.
A wad of Nez Perce muddled by the flap of a trapper’s cap.
The trough under an elm-ish blanket.
Your blouse with green embroidered grebes
still hung from a nail in the barn wood
where your sugary core got pressed,
where the years sloughed off in confusion
graze.
Bio:
Luke Brekke’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in New England Review, The Missouri Review, Denver Quarterly, and elsewhere. He has been a work fellow at the Frost Place Poetry Seminar and is a reader for New England Review.