I Think I Would Prefer to Linger

Sometimes I catch myself liking the world
In some small aspect so much—sun-splotched walls,
The ivory arms of dead cottonwoods,

Dry scents of brush grass, slow exhalations,
Shadowy blue outlines of black mountains
Cupping the lights of desert towns at dawn,

The widow’s heavy-leaved pecan branches
Swaying over the ochre cinderblocks
Just beyond this rectangular window—-

That I wonder whether some part of me
Has made up its own mind I’ll be leaving.
Too many things seem lovely, suddenly,

And I would like to believe it all means
That now this is who I am, the person
Who appreciates things. But I know me.