MORIBUNDITY

away from the creamy
smear of a gibbous moon

I hide myself in Shakespeare’s
coat sleeve breathing only

when I remember to breathe
and coming out only to eat

the stale offerings from
an old man’s crooked hand

High Lonesome

"High Lonesome"

watercolor by Terry Clark

Winter comes effortlessly
on the High Lonesome Ranch,
where the snow piles up -
white on white,
and the elk scream,
in the frozen pine forests,
like banshees.


I imagine what it would be like
to stay there in the cabin -
enduring the brief ghosts

of miners, cowboys, and outlaws
humming in the corners.


I’d see the stars arranging
themselves around the
windows at night,
and resting on the trellises,
as if they were the white
and lavender Columbines
of summer.


And in the utter stillness,
I’d hold the moon close
to my breast and listen,
over and over again,
to the rising silence
of my thoughts.