There is this edge where shadows
and bones of some of us walk
                            backwards.
Talk backwards.  There is this edge
call it an ocean of fear of the dark.  Or
name it with other songs.  Under our ribs
our hearts are bloody stars.  Shine on
shine on, and horses in their galloping flight
strike the curve of ribs.
                           Heartbeat
and breathe back back sharply.  Breathe
                                        backwards.

There is this edge within me
                     I saw it once
an August Sunday morning when the heat hadn't
left this earth.  And Goodluck
sat sleeping next to me in the truck.
We had never broken through the edge of the 
singing at four a.m.
                We had only wanted to talk, to hear
any other voice to stay alive.
                      And there was this edge--
not the drop of sandy rock cliff
bones of volcanic earth into
                             Albuquerque.

Not that,
         but a string of shadow horses kicking
and pulling me out of my belly,
         not into the Rio Grande but into the music
barely coming through
                      Sunday church singing
from the radio.  Battery worn-down but the voices
talking backwards.