Boys I loved to follow in the dark                climb upfind me                       on that bluff above the rivermuddy swirl sparked with stars            I feltsomething break apart                        my head sayinghang back                   they won't love you like you love themyou'll have to pedal home                    bewildered againrecall your icy chest                how a startled doveexploded out of the sleeve wind made      of a shaken treewhen one of them leapt                    from so high upyou thought he'd die                    before he swam back to youthe bluff was that it happened                    that way                    the bluffis that anytime                                    I spat the word pussyon the basketball court                with those boys          I wanted thatplosive sound on my tongue                    and nothing else*Born in a valley of bluffs,I return to a bluffcracked open by Union cannonballs,called Red Paint Hill instead of Look at All This Blood;bluff that accepted the wheels of a truck going over,consumed by fire;bluff overlooking a baptism,the river that swallows a brief Hallelujah.*So I kept alive easy enough there in the smallness of wounds        I carried like everyone else and waited for nothing to change.So I met a girl, got married and had kids and went with it until        something else broke or I did or it didn’t feel like love at all,and by then it was too late. Stroll the baby, feed the horses,        lie down next to a woman estranged from all she wantedbecause of me. Imagine it. Such a small house and no wish        fulfilled within it. I have regrets. To bluff: to say: to not.*Bluff meaning husband and forever;bluff that hides a cave with a mattress insidecovered in lovesick graffiti,where I reached for a boy’s hand then pulled back;to bluff around the bush; to bluff up the wrong tree.*Eros an empty locker room.Eros a jockstrap.Earthy smellI lingered undressingto be nearer to.And afterward, the slick,steam-whittled showersmystical with heatheld me there. Hang back.Some beginningwith an end inside—small-town fear. A boydragged behind a truckwas in the news.I didn’t want to be the news.*Bluff no helicopter can reach when the suicidal leap,posted with a sign: NO TRESPASSING;bluff haunted even in daylight;King's Bluff, where I got laid, or said I got laid;bluff of the tourism slogan "Gateway to the New South";bluff of the backward glance,of our youth pastor saying I'll jump (not a bluff).*This other misdirection—I've slept my way into so many rooms.Marriage den, motel of my affair.And it was never about the greasy,incessant need of two peoplefucking only for lust.When I felt alone, there was alwaysa man or woman readyto deadbolt the door behind usfor an hour, to give or receive,then leave with nothing.Cherry pits, an empty bottle of wine.*Bluff where I lost my keys, my nerve;bluff I carry like a nail in the roof of my mouth;bluff that says This is all I want.*I walk in late wintersome unscripted ledgeleading down to the river.Landscape as wish.Look at the way the bluffbreaks and holds, like desire.Look: no doves or boys,only a hunk of rocksomebody gave a namebecause they wanted a way back to it.