A Long Epilogue
A passing
of phones poles,
windbreak trees on winter morning,
comes draped in waning thoughts
Of how we’re
all going crazy here,
in boxes moving, static,
voyaging out at dawn’s light to
Do something
we scarcely remember
as having worked its way
into etchings of memory:
Springs
that ran dry to drink,
words that lasted until
the flattery came out of them.
. . .
I walked
until there was no deal,
no bloody shirt treaty left unsigned,
no hill left to take in anger,
And watched
the snakes and sinners
perched upon the cliffs,
shedding their skin-clothes until
Born anew
in summer rain,
fixed faces were above us
laughing that we would
Never see
their graces again
never speak the same verses
of pale moonlight pure.
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