I was nothing
But a window sailing through the night.
– James Galvin (“Agriculture”)
And once a young cowboy full
of living wildly, the blow and snort
of bulls and horns beside me,
death was distant and I cried
war whoops of another tribe
long gone gray or pushing daisies.
We chased seasons in circles full
of fast bravado, reached and roped
the moment, tipped our glasses over—
and over around the fire,
to see our stories disappear, lifted
like stirred embers to the stars.
When old men can’t remember, they
seek good habits, look for grace
to emulate and plan ahead, calculate
the odds and go forth with a good
and steady heart, write down clues
for some young man to follow, or not.
drycrikjournal 