Tomorrow I travel,
see my headlights on the car ahead,
lay my pallet in the dust ruts beside the road.
All is in order here:
the secrets I acknowledge, the children that I
are discarded in the highway weeds.
In a month, a miser's mood
vacant as a stone thrown to make a river wall,
I watch a line of fires building from the Eastern
I leave to show I can.
Was Plain (in the Water's Light)
As I make my slow way home,
cooled by the sentinel breezes
and cedar canyon,
sunlight is a study
of hammered gold on terraced hills.
The Palo Duro moves over the oak roots,
over shale and yellowed sandstone.
Upstream, beyond the bend
chinaberry trees diffuse morning's haze,
morning's battle smoke.
Sword broken in its scabbard,
empty pistol heavy in its holster,
I water my horse,
soak bruised hands in the chilling flow.