Asking for the Moon

Patterns of snow and erosion
wrinkle Ohioans
til they squeak like drying corn.
I was never here.

Oregon. Country of
sapphire, emerald, slate:
a black watch plaid of pines
and pouring skies.

Gordon could tell me more:
his mother, raised in Hood River,
slept out of doors sometimes, breathing
that dark, moonlight
landing ephemeral on her mouth…

I need that feeling. I want the ocean
outside my door.