Woman From The Plains

A claustrophobic trace
in her couture of the day

A fear of walls closing
upon her body

Curtains of cloth
flow and melt

across her thighs
There’s enough room to move

She looks good this way
Not afraid at all of constriction

this way
Her face a door

her eyes keyholes
on two locks

The prairie wind within
coming down from the far mountains

whistles through them
Stirs me

My shirt suddenly too tight
My hair in my own face

I want to run
and not stop until she says I may