^{O’Keeffe, to Stieglitz [Canyon, TX, to New York, NY; 1917]}

Naked swimmer, I am your
blue lake—a hot moon

lifting from my throat. Tonight,
I am full of wheels and empty

canyons. Desert
so open we walk without

roads. I throw bottles
at the made-to-order stars

for my sister’s rifle
to spark, break,

burst glass
to belated sunset.

The sheet on my bed
is a great twist.

It is strange to write you
just because I want to,

but I hate to be undone
by a little thing like distance.