A feverish air seemed to wave from the flowers.
They opened their charred blossoms; light
curled, uncurled; inside the gold eyes, pollen, sand,
a lifting cane of thin bone.
I was looking at an art book on Georgia O’Keeffe
across from the First National Bank in Iowa City
I didn’t want to get lost in there, so I stared away
getting familiar in a small town.