Warmer Nights

by Tim Carrier

On warmer days, July or August, Jean & I drive into the village in the little blue truck to see a matinee at the Lobo &,

if it’s a Saturday, we stay for the music & dancing at the Hall.

In the Lobo, the swamp cooler wheezes & whines over the score. The teenage couples disappear in the dark,

& we laugh & eat our licorice in movie bliss suspended.

Outside under the Russian olive trees on Guadalupe, the little birds open & close their beaks.

Above the Hall’s tin ceiling, & thin zinc roof, the night reaches—between two or three worlds—& in wonder

in the dark between the people.

Ghost elephants, Jean says, of the thunder in the valley. We love everything about the rain & after.

The band takes ten & I roll cigarettes under the tear-streaked, tired beams of the portál on the side street., & when

the dance lets out we drive west to look at the stars lying down in the pale black hills.

Juniper nights, Jean calls these. Salt cedar nights & sage. The little blue truck hums softly in the soft tracks in the dirt.

We’re in a time-path. The stars lie down along the table hills. They long to return to being trees.

An airplane crosses heavy dragging something in the dark. Heart of one, Jean sings, to the radio, in her soft cicada breathing.

My last door, she sings. We slip matter, then time.

Love is its dream, she sings. The night is all around us. We open & close our mouths. Drink the soft dirt line.