drycrikjournal

After the war,
hats and horses,
black and white heroics
helped us forget
Hitler and Hiroshima,
helped heal and shape
half of humanity hooked
on Hollywood cowboys.

I lived close to the stars,
slept near the fire,
drank from a stream
of tomorrows
that have arrived
twenty thousand times
working towards
this moment in a poem:

glimpses of reckless youth
and luck at the Longbranch
replaced by another tribe
of younger men
wild, woolly and tough.
With each wind-whipped rumor,
I worry more about them
than I did myself.

Loose upon this earth
we mark our presence
like dogs at dusk,

blaze trees
and build fence
to claim our place

in time, to sleep
at peace
with the outside world

of Pharisees gone wild.
We fill their bowls
with beef.

We know the ground
as well as we want,
its traps a horseback

o’er its rocky face
we flew with flapping
wings of youth

we gave names to—
plus to the peaceful
we are drawn to

where the cattle
always feel
like gathering.

Seasons of instruction
in the senses, it knows
what the future does not.