you were not my prey
on this long hot day

though it seemed you
sensed you were

skittering in front of me
on the trail forever

or at least 1000 seconds--forever
in lizard time

perhaps you knew who I was, a reptile killer
since the dawn of man

or since my perverse pubescence, when I'd hunt
whiptails and rattlers  

and take prickly pride in how many of you
my .22 Ruger would slaughter

I have that time hidden in gray folds
beneath an old skull  

I don't carry the weapons of war,
anymore

but I can't deceive you, not in the naked
light of the sun

you were right to run; though I have concealed
my blood lust, you know it is still there

my father is dead
though in the whimsical world of words
I can resurrect him, not in the raining rays
of the Texas sun, but in the darkness
in his Oldsmobile, on a Christmas Eve
bathed in the lighter lights of the season,
their reflections, rolling over our tinted windshields,
littered our eager eyes, in color
and cacophonous taunting,
“ ‘tis the season, ‘tis the season”

the children are not yet
disenchanted by these chants,
thinking still of presents under the tree
some flickering sense of mystery

I, old enough to shave and see the cords
that feed the mocking lights, catch a lump
in my throat, before it fills my eyes with terrible tears
for I know the car will take us back from whence we came
far from the Plaza where we watch the lights,
to the walls where the colors don’t speak
to a place where one day someone will die
and the lights and all my words
will not bring them back

I took the only seat left, beside a dude
with an afro ten inches tall, who bongo drummed
his knees, accompanying an invisible quartet

he claimed he wanted
to create, not re-late, so he slapped paint
on canvas, and blew on his horn

his woman wanted more, more
bread, more bed, more time to rap, more,
more, plural mores he said

but he wanted singular less
and told her it would be best
if she split--and she did

though on her way out the door of his crib
she kicked a wet canvas, leaving a stiletto print
on James Baldwin's nose

"cool cat must have had his nose broke
by some ***** before, " so he left her smudge
alone, and then he was alone

when he got off the bus
and told me to be cool, he handed me a smoke
I bummed a light from another hip cat

but he didn't have a story to tell
so I smoked my Winston solo, listening to the bus's hum
and distant muffled horns

Oakland, June 1969

I write for me, not for thee
I write for me, in order to see
the things to which I might otherwise be blind
to rummage among ruins to see what I may find

I write not to create mystery,
nor to unravel history
not to fill my pockets with gold
or even have words for others to behold

because I write for me

when words scar a clean white page
like some tiny creatures released from a cage
I pause long enough to explore
why I opened their door

they were not asleep but only hiding
and when I allowed their silent gliding
I had to follow their puzzling trail
like they led to some great holy grail

And when I saw they did not end
but they like I could only pretend
I paused long enough to breathe
and finally to conceive

I write for me, and not for thee

so even if I don’t understand
the nature of this literary land
the words still keep walking
and my eyes keep stalking
the path I take for me,
but not for thee

white petals pepper his ivy,
some droop casually into the monkey grass
all volunteers, their conception unplanned

after his early constitutional
he takes tea with them, and tells them
life tales--content they listen, hear

first cautious with his revelations
no lugubrious lessons he has learned,
little of loss:

his first kiss,
his summer sojourns with Uncle Elliott
his favorite hiding spot at play

then, when they've heard of joy
he praises them for their comely countenance,
their generous journey from seed

later, when he returns at eventide
he dares tell them of Sophia, his beautiful bride
who tended tulips before these interlopers came

he whispers, so he does not startle them, or perchance
wake her, as he confesses she lies beneath them, forever silent
in their bed

I confess
though thousands years have passed
since some barefoot soul called you
a god, I can't even recall the ennobled appellation
they gave you...Ra?

to those who carved on cool cave walls
your burning legacy was a  glimpse of gold infinity
to me, a wearer of shoes and master of plastic tools,
you are but a spec in the night, e pluribus unum,
a paltry 90 million miles from my spinning rock  

proudly proclaiming your *******  
you sear skins and sins of your followers
who supplicate to your filtered rays
while blithely ignoring, you number our days  
and will fizzle out like a sparkler, one finite July eve
who called you divine?

three miscarriages: God's
abortions her curse, the third time
not a charm, though with a marriage
of joy and alarm, she feels a flutter

more wings than feet
taking flight amniotic;
she lies still and waits for another,
the expectant mother

she is not
disappointed;
it moves again
to her delight

climbing closer
to the light, wet wings
flapping slowly

this web fingered,
big-brained swimmer-flyer
son-daughter-carrier
of the eternal flame

who will be to blame
if its eyes never see the sun?
what God would will
such a denial?

the one who gifts all
things life, yet has been
but a fickle teaser
with her

she lies very still,
holding the breath of life, hoping
its exhalation will be the current
on which new wings take flight

sleep deprived five dozen hours  
I am on a desert highway, without a nickel
my thumb begging for a ride which wouldn’t come
until dawn    

but I don’t know all that dark is ahead;
I only know the night is moonless, the cedars
the pinyons on the far mesas are moving like mournful buffalo,
long gone except in my waking dream  

on the road two eyes are all I see
green, sparkling as prisms of light in all that black,  
electrified ***** of mushy matter, glowing in sockets
in a canine skull    

I fear strange dogs
and other fanged beasts--I pray to a god
I do not know is there, imploring empty space
and dark matter for salvation    

it comes when the lights of a diesel  
birth, rear, and shrink the shadow of me  
and allow my vexed eyes to see, an asphalt stream
with nary a scary creature but I

old truck had a flat
at the foot of the Sangre de Cristo* mountains
on a rutted brown road, by a singing stream,
swollen from snow melt, the sagging bridge across
looked too tired to handle our load

we replaced the bald tire
with one equally hairless

we were washing
the grit and grease from our hands
in the baptismal waters, when we saw him,
so small we were surprised he could walk,
and her, at the other end of life’s long string,
so old she moved like a question mark down the bank,
a bucket in one sinewy hand,
the tiny boy’s paw in the other  

we crossed to greet them,
though neither of us knew why...  
but we were under an infinite blue sky  
and on four wheels again--what else was there to do,
but cross the rushing waters to meet strangers
by a strange road?  

the little one spoke, with words so small
they disappeared by the time they reached our ears  
how we knew what he was saying we would never recall  
though we did as he commanded, taking off our shoes,
placing our feet in the cold current, following his lead
in this dance on a nameless road  

the ancient one never uttered a word,
but gestured to us, to the sky, to the blue green peaks,
and to the waters at our feet, and told us, with skin and bone  
that the blood of everyman flowed from the high country,
and washed our tangled toes
and simple soles

Will died intestate,  
which mattered little because
he had even less

a lake house
the county said wasn't worth
back taxes or a bulldozer's
brutish time

but they razed it
confiscated his truck
which was older than time when
I said I couldn't pay
his final debt

the pine box and small plot
came to two weeks' wages,
a headstone maybe three

they left his boat,
a tinny vessel painted with rust
but I knew I could trust it was hole free,
buoyed to his dead pier, the day
he passed

I took it to his
favorite cove, where bass
would hop into
his lap

for half a day, maybe more,
I fished but came back to shore
without anything
for my hours

save a solitary
memory of a time Will told me
ALL he had would one day be mine,
except his way with fine fishes
that eluded my drifting line
and hapless hook

I looked into his eyes
not knowing if he had
a reciprocal vision

no doubt he smelled me; his
sense of scent more developed than
we sluggish two legged beasts

for each step I took
back, he took one forward, our
synchronized death dance

if by chance, I survived
my feckless faith would not
be revived

after all, I had a shotgun
pointed at his noble chest; without
my terrible tool of modernity
I would be his feral feast

when my deed was done
and this creature was supine,
desecrated by the fearful squeeze
of my finger

which God would I thank?
the one man wrote into existence
to allay all mortal fears

or the one I believe carved
canyons from stone, the one who
knew river life was flowing in
every newborn raven's heart

from which one should I dread
retribution for such a profane act?
which would punish me for the slaughter,
the scarlet blood in the pure white snow?

both--both would have seen,
both would have known, the tyranny
of evil men--me, all my brothers cast from
Eden--such a ******* of stardust

after dinner on the porch
was the best time, he and grandpa watching,
waiting for the storms--a thunderclap
the sweetest note to both of them

sheets of rain rolled across
the big pasture, downdrafts made the boy shiver,
even cradled in the old man's arms

neither would speak, grandpa's good arm
would point, or wave, these movements a code
between generations, theirs at least

finally a twister appeared in the west
growing plumper as it spun across the fields,
spitting gray dirt from its base, a zigzagging
dancer without a care in the world

grandma and Aunt Helen
fled to the cellar, imploring the pair
to follow

though they didn't, for all their hours
gazing at the heaving heavens would have been
profligate had they hid in the ground,
missing creation's greatest crescendo  

the angry funnel ate a section of fence
wide as a football field, and felled a tree
not a quarter mile from the house--its roots
too shallow, grandpa thought

when the tempest passed, the sun made
an appearance, slipping between the cloud bank
that birthed the tornado, and the silent soil
in the devil's wake

in its final moments,
it glared at the interlopers on the porch,
perchance admonishing them the promise
of its golden rays was no sacred contract
but a fickle gift

there was no power

from my Mumbai hotel I
could see the stream of people
in the narrow street below

a cart carrying the dead listed
and nearly toppled over

the ox pulling it did not stop
dragging the askew carriage along

passersby steered clear of the primitive hearse
knowing it carried the curse, the fever felling the denizens
of this muggy megapolis

a plague harvesting souls
quicker than they could be burned

the Mithi was thick with their ashes,
diluted only by tears of the mourners
who harbored fears they would be next

I was there, a helpless healer;
a doctor turned detective, running
a race to find a cause, a miracle cure

all my potions impotent,
all my staring at slides a lesson
in limitations, ignorance--a discovery
of crawling creatures too miniscule
to be dissected, too beguiling to be
understood

my eyes were tired of looking
at the tiny death moguls and their victims
my ears weary of the entreaties for relief
from suffering

yet I stood and watched, one wagon
after another, carrying carrion for the pyres

I prayed the power would stay off,
for light would have shone on me:
a curious survivor, unworthy of whatever
grace kept me from the heaps of lifeless
limbs bound for the fires of the night

each night
he would enter his boy's room  
Bobby's tomb, he had come to call it  
and turn the TV off  

before remotes, 24/7 programming
and the infomercial, plump with desperate promises
the tube gave a final hail, the stars 'n stripes whipping, the national anthem screaming, and an anonymous promise
to return tomorrow in a perfect world

it would not be perfect for Bobby,
no matter how much thoughtless Thorazine,
hazy Haldol, or mesmerizing Mellaril
they shoved down his throat

now and then
before flipping the **** to off
he would sit with his sleeping son
stare into the screen, listen to its hissing;
he would swear he saw something  
in the gray ocean of static  

not trillions of senseless electrons
busy bouncing, but a lone sailor, rowing away
in a foaming sea, riding raging swells,  
bound for a black horizon

one his tormented son
had reached long ago

(the old man told his grandson)
that fleck of light out yonder is Venus
all by itself, out in the dark
can we go there?

would take my old truck a hundred
years to make it, and there ain't no air
what do people breathe
on that planet?

ain't no people, just a mess
of smelly clouds and hot rocks
it looks so small from here
and white, very white

that's light from the sun
grandson, and that tricks our eyes, even here
wait, grandpa, I see another light
blinking, going to Venus

that's a big old jet,
fifty far miles from here
but it's getting closer to Venus
see it, will it land there?

no boy, it won't come any closer
to that fried rock than we are to Mars
I see it, see, I see it, closer
even closer, blinking

I told you light tricks your eyes
I s'pose you'll figure that out later
wait, wait, I can't see it anymore
did it land on Venus?

maybe, maybe so, son
but I don't know for sure, it's just gone
*'cuz light tricks our eyes, right
grandpa, right?

like a tin cup scraping along iron bars
was the clank of the clock
no longer a liquid, lingering of seconds
but a staccato rapid fire of time
signaling the approach of my farewell rhyme

the man in black asked again if I wanted to pray
and mumbled something somber about judgment day
but I really heard nothing
beyond the light's florescent hum
and had no illusions
about what was to come

in the world of “before this room”
when my rage ripped life from limb
I had known that closing my eyes a final time
would open them to the wretched writhing of
nothing

still
in these last lapping of seconds
with the needle patiently waiting a few feet away
I heard echoes of those oft chanted lines
about some kingdom at hand
one that I could never enter
even if it were really there

there are two diagonal slashes
in the gauze of screen covering
the sliding glass patio door
each, this very moment
points to a dove

a pair that hid in the oak
this morning while they made
their song, dulcet tones to most
though not to me

I don't recall how the screen
was cut, but now the birds have moved on
and the gashes point only to a bed
of leaves, I will probably not rake
tomorrow

today, I will draw
the curtains and, as darkness gathers,
leave lights off

that may keep me from seeing
my son's flag draped casket lowered
into the ground, without the sound
of even those mourning doves

I am glad your mother departed
before you, for she would have screamed
in today's silence, and would never
have let me close the curtains

she would have implored me
to repair the screen, especially if she happened to see
the scars pointing to two sad songbirds,
even for a brief moment in the sun

Father comes to me in dreams
a night phantom with conundrums I never
solve in the light of day

still he is there, lurking, locked
in memory's vault--a safety deposit box
for which I have no key

but who I have chosen to be
is an untenable version of a me
he will never see

for a dead man did not truly write
my script--he's not even watching
as I walk upon the stage

I took rest on the river road
by the big Platmann place,

two stout stories, white pillared and regal on this prairie

envy ate my gut most days when I passed:
a fine car, servants and the like

today though, was curiosity stirred in me
since what I happened to see, was a giant
red-tailed hawk, splayed and stuck to an outbuilding, entails dripping

an avian crucifixion, I was told

after the raptor snatched up the Platmann's tabby

the pet was not saved, by prayer or the screams of the young lass who called the cat Matilda

though a handy shotgun brought down
the bird before it reached the stand of trees

(where it would have had its furry repast)

only winged and not shot fatal
the hawk was dragged back to the shed

where a knife slit its gut, and a fire forged hammer and three penny nails did the rest

the skies did not darken, nor did the sacrificed call out to an invisible father

'tis not the way of hunters, nor their prey

I did tarry a while and wonder, if a child's eyes saw this rapacious red reaping,

or knew of the dumb desperate need for a blood cleansing

the gardener you hired is outside,
his ******* tools roaring:

the heaving bellows of a big bear
the whining of a radiated hornet

when the quiet of Monday morning
returns; I lay down my book
to take a look

he is yet here, snipping the
neighbor's Oleander

yes, it's still eager to climb over
our fence

he is stepping in the dormant beds
I told him not to desecrate--the black earth
where your petunias lived

I buried both your cats there,
with little ceremony

just as you requested, your last Monday

for John, it came with
the raucous roar of crowds when he scored
the winning touchdown; for Willie,
when he drove in the final run

for Paul, it came when he charged
a *** bunker on a chunk of rock from hell
he heard no applause--only the rat-tat-tat
of the gun that mowed him down

for Anna, it came with no
sound and fury; only a gentle thank you kiss
from her girl who told her she had been
the best mother in the world

for Rafael, his final hurrah was humble:
a smile from the lady who handed him his last check
after he mopped his last floor, cleaned his final
porcelain bowl, after a patient half century

for me, I don't know when it will be...
perhaps it occurred long ago, in an arena
or on a field I didn't recognize as a place of honor
or perchance tomorrow, when I learn to die

a yellow flower
or two,

ones I can't name,

survived June's arid,
brutal assault

ant mounds abound; scorpions
aren't despondent

Timothy grasses, weeds
don't complain

always there are
mesquites

stubborn adolescents
unaware steer dung left
their ancestors here

this is not a place one
can walk barefoot

not even the Comanche
had such soles

I tried, but you
lashed out

leaving goatheads
and other burrs
in my heels

perhaps to
remind me

I bought you,

but I own
nothing

he took the cliche sabbatical
when his wife died, careening through
the Rockies to the jagged Pacific coast,
seeing old lovers along the way

ending in Iowa
with his daughter's family:
flat lands, with no ups and downs
surprise turns, or fatal strokes

there the grief was level
his daughter of strong faith
his granddaughter young enough
to yet see heaven in blue sky

mornings after Cheerios
she would lead him around the section
edifying him about the livestock, their purpose;
she introduced him to Harriet

her pet pig;
he couldn't help but think of his Hazel
and if the consonant and vowel were coincidental
or a contrivance of a child's supple mind

his granddaughter spoke of Hazel
with sublime ease, absent the halting
staccato utterances of adults when
they mentioned his wife's name

after all, his grandchild saw her
in a passing cloud, or in the glint
of moonlight on the pond,  
in clear azure sky

soon it came time to say goodbye
to the hog, who had been with the child
a sixth of her years--but she knew this
was the way of things

feeding and fondling new things
watching them grow, becoming cautious
when their mass exceeded your own
when they began to look away

'twas then it was time
all God's creatures would lose footing
even in this flat place,
and go to sleep

though the child would not forget
Hazel or Harriet, for the latter was on the table,
sizzling and succulent, the former on the mantel,
framed in gold, smiling with eyes open

proud buck
froze, close,
heart in my
cross hairs

I squeeze
the trigger
nothing
happens

except birdsong

as if
they know,  
a doe was saved
from widowhood

by a mystic
misfire

at the first Missouri rest stop
on I-44, I stopped to ***, to walk
and to listen to strangers

this had been my habit of late
of late being the last ten years, since
I lost her, and sojourned solo

on the move, I would catch snippets:
a "this potato salad is stale," complaint
or a "I don't want to drive" protest

on this June day--summer solstice
I got lucky, for a couple spoke loudly
and I was hidden behind a fat oak

"I'm not going to have this child."
"You don't get to decide alone. It's --"
"No, it's not and it's my body!"

then he jumped up from the table
and marched mad steps to his Mercedes;
it was a royal red

and the hue matters not
to most of you, but it figures
clearly in my rear view

headed east again after I heard
what I was not intended to hear, I could
yet see them just behind my eyes

he, trying in vain to explain
that a few cells mattered--her muscularly
clinging to a convenient cleansing

their words echoing in my head
and in the blood red coach that carried
them east, to uncharted malaise

she drank only Teachers Scotch
with me, and only with me she said

a half truth--she drank
only Teachers, but with any slurping soul
who had the time  

the fraction of that lie stuck in my gut
waiting for our Scotch, our Teachers Scotch,
to wash it down, to flush it through a black hole
to some yawing universe that only existed
in the last drop of the last bottle
from the last oaken barrel of...
Teachers Scotch

I did not expect the truth from her
except I loved pretending it was there
waiting to roll from her tongue into my empty ear
along with the scent of the fine whiskey
she drank only with me
(but never all of thee)

her husband
was not named Schrödinger  
though many days they did not know
if the cat was dead or alive  

now and then  
an offering, usually a small sparrow,
was found on the porch, and she complained
not once of mischievous mice  

from her kitchen window,
hunched over a ***, or mixing lemonade,
she would spot the black and white creature,
(who never was given a name, not even by three farm sons)  
stalking imagined prey across the yard,  
under the swing set, or in the corner  
by the white picket fence    

she could remember the day  
the neighbor brought two kittens,
asking her to choose--it was snowing lightly
she chose the smaller of the two  
the civil thing to do

she rarely saw
when it lapped up the milk she left,
or licked clean the plate with sardines  
but she knew it was he, taking a light repast,
a sabbatical from great mysterious hunts
in the green barn, or by the cellar door  

the boys were all in school then,
full of pink color, noise, and often
covered with rich dirt  

one by one they left…
pneumonia took the youngest
a day when the cat sat, statuesque,
by their black 1940 Ford    

the eldest
disappeared on a Saturday, into a lake
where large mouth bass were plentiful
and the waters clean, until his friends saw him dive
into the depths, not to be seen again before Tuesday,  
when his bloated body decided to come up for air and light  
the same day she saw the cat skitter up the lone oak
in the front yard  

the middle, her most quiet  
said goodbye from the bus depot,
saluting them as he turned to the bus door  
a year to the day before he was shot through the throat
on some horrid hunk of rock named “Iwo Jima”  
the cat was nowhere to be found that day  
but she swore she heard him meowing
all the night after they put her baby
in the silent soil  

her husband got the cancer
and drifted off on a Christmas eve
to some pasture she saw in the snowy sky
when they put him in the ground, the cat  
made no sound, though she saw him
faintly, moving in some faraway  
fallow field, following his own
soundless dreams

dirt clods, actually
there were few stones
in the creek that separated
their apartments from ours

a creek, and income gap even we,
barely double digits old, could see
as clearly as the stream
between our worlds

in our battles, I missed
on purpose, as did most
of the Manor marines--never
did a clod hit me

our general, Rex, connected often
inviting obscenities from our opponents
but never did they cross the creek

if they had, it would have been
for naught, for we had won the war
before the skirmishes began

our pool, tennis courts, and club
were the arsenals that gave us the edge
and the Stuart Manor soldiers knew this
but chunked the dirt valiantly
all the same

deep in the warren
they feel safe from the treachery
of my carnivorous calling

but I can use the shovel,
that terrible tool of modernity--after all,
'tis a favorite of grave diggers

a few scoops in the dank soil
and the rabbits are vulnerable to my attack:
a simple bashing of twitching skulls

my hands driven by a hunger
they satisfy with grasses in summer,
twigs, roots in winter

I wish my needs were so meager
my appetite so abstemious--but I crave
blood fresh flesh, torn from the bone

without their sacrifice, I must seek
bigger beasts, long dead, cellophane sealed
and put on ****** display

or become a vegan and ground great grains,
boil lazy legumes, and feign a higher nobility
in what I eat and excrete

that afternoon,
the boy fried an egg on the sidewalk,
sunny side up

Mother said to waste food was sin,
though she had no qualms about dumping
Daddy's rot gut and gin

while Daddy was comatose
with drink, down the sink she would pour it;
the son knew the ritual well  

tonight was the same, Daddy ******
and couched, Mother cleaning his puke
before the dinner dishes

Daddy wouldn't recall a thing tomorrow,
another day which held mother's silence from fear,
shame--Daddy's from ethanol's eager eraser

Daddy would never know a transformer
blew but a block from their house, leaving
unsettled scores in the dark

or that for once Mother and son
wouldn't have to look at Daddy's hangdog face,
the incandescent haze which bathed it absent,
thanks to a blessing from a blackout
of another sort

for me, the creek may as well have been the mighty Mississippi

too shallow for canoe; mostly carp and crawfish called it home

no great novels were penned about adventures there

though I had my own tales to tell:

sand squishing between my toes on a sultry August day

a water moc I decided to let live

the time my grandfather taught me how to clean the catch--fish guts given back to the sluggish current

most of all, the arm I found on a Sunday afternoon, one attached to a body

who turned out to be a man who had cheated my grandpa

and vanished only days later -- assumed to have absconded to avoid John Law

my uncle the sheriff fished him out and planted him again, without a doc's scrutinizing eye

never was the man mentioned again, even by his kin--whipped white trash

such was Texas in 1940, questions not answered because not asked

drought dried the creek to fetid puddles
the year my grandpa passed

the very spot I found the arm, one of the last places to dry

a stagnant pool with minnows and memories colliding in death throes

and my grandfather buried spitting distance from the man I had found

both now above the creek where it joined
the river Brazos, it too a victim of the sun's relentless sear

though not so willing to give up secrets, to
cast doubt on legends, or let ghosts rise from the mire

I
am
a creature
who
dwells
in
the
trench
Mariana
I
do
not
breathe
as
you
I
have
no
ears,
tears,
or
fears
I
do
not
love,
nor
hate
no serpent
tempted
my
kin  
I
came
before
sin
I
need
no
salvation

when he
was a young man,
come round up,
they would hit
the trail dead dark
before daybreak;

without a morsel
of moonlight,
he would follow
the rider in front
of him, watching
the glow of the cowboy's
hand-rolled,

while
he puffed away
on a store bought
Lucky Strike, to guide
the cowboy
on his tail;

this beacon,
a bead orange  
in a sea of black,
allowed for silence
among men

who listened
for the lowing
of the beasts
they were charged
to capture, and brand
for slaughter

when you left,
I heard your voice each night

days, weeks droned on, and
your words became more faint

on the anniversary of your passing,
you came to me only in murky dreams

sound, it seems, is as impotent there
as it is in deep space

will another revolution around the sun
make you vanish for good

will I be there with you, wedded to black,
listening without ears

to creation's eternal command for coughing carbon
to return to dust

will there again be an us, in that place
where nothing escapes,

save wondrous waves that whisper
the ghostly story of our demise

spending time with you is like
being cast eternally as a character in
a Terrence Malick film, a narrator dictating
our every move, our scripts unfolding
in slow, mesmerizing motion

someone always has to die in these tales
and question the almighty's purpose, if there
be one, beyond birth and return to the earth;
the time between being swallowed
by our eyes, undigested

I am ****** in as well, slowly, by the lungs
of our creator, whose exhalations come as oceans of light,
though high tides recede to reveal dark shores,
our inevitable demise, before painful,
interminable resurrections

perhaps
we were not meant to take this trail alone
perhaps we were

a few inches too far right
on the ledge--half the width of my foot
and I suppose I fell

and here I am, fine,
though I can't move my left leg or right arm
blood is in both my eyes

gravity's curse carried me here
and is channeling this scarlet stream,
from wherever it began,
into my field of vision

which, though red clouded,
holds the base of a pine, boulders
as big as buffalo, and a black bird

a crow I suspect, soon
to be joined by his brethren--to enjoy
the feast of me

my pain wanes, as do thoughts
someone will find me in this steep ravine
a hundred meters below the trail
two long miles from the road

perhaps
we weren't meant to do this alone
but I did, and I am here,
alone

save for the crow
and I can't help but wonder
if my eyes will be open when the birds
begin their work

or if greedy buzzards
will join them, to take my
flesh from bone

the pain wanes
I am sleepy, the lone crow
now a ******

their eyes are open
mine feel heavy--perhaps
I have the answer

closed

why do blackbirds
leave so many brown droppings
on my white mailbox, riveted
to a red painted post, planted
in green Bermuda grass, by
a gray asphalt road, under
a baby blue eye sky