A small man is surrounded
      by only great, expansive
      land — forever wheat,
      the horns of steers
      so bright gnats orbit them.  

Disregard what you know
of Tulsa, the single story
shopping mall and the zit
faced kid named Albert
who worked the grill
at the Steer and Shake,
who put bacon on your burger,
no charge.

This is my dream,
not your memory
of a summer in '96.  

I once heard you say
that dreams are like ticks. 

      I went to Oklahoma
      just now, for a few minutes
      between orders — let me tell you,
      the wind was so high
      I had to lean
      straight into it,
      the sky so blue
      my hair stood on end.
      There were no hills,
      I was the tallest thing around.