Keeping track on scraps of paper,
poet friends and cattle
in far-flung pastures

I’ve yet to see, yet to gather—
yet I can smell them near,
inhale their cud-breath

from letters pressed
in chapbooks: songs
of purpose and suggestion.

Numbers don’t matter
this close to the corrals
and its dust-cloud sort:

‘in and bye’
for one more season
or gooseneck trip to town.


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