Concluding Winter
The boy watches the men
near the warped-boards
corral sharpen
knives, did snuff, judge
girlfriend snapshots.
The wintered bulls are
trailered,
except for a cancer-eyed
Hereford.
The men’s coats and
jackets
are draped on corral
posts
and a light south wind
ruffles
them toward the Dakotas.
The boy owns two words,
Yep
and Nope. He rides sheep
to prepare for broncs and
bulls.
He wears a hand-me-down
Resistol
battered by work and
weather.
One man notes the promise
of a spring
of slush and mud. The
others nod, spit tobacco juice,
and a burly one joshes
about a girl gone-to-town.
The men agree... sooner
or later everyone
Bleeds: thumbs lost to
rope-crush saddlehorns,
Driving on Kessler’s
Whiskey to the tune of lost-woman,
Prom night fights... And do you remember
that Keya Paha kid who got the earring ripped off?
The boy watches the men
stand, stretch,
and shake their heads at
the bull,
good for one season,
now bound for
hotdogville.
In Deep Bourbon Cover
No one wants to be
tracked down like 35-pounds
of rapid coyote.
I want something
luminous-blue...
magical moon or plaid
snap shirt,
Bowie knife or edgy
horse.
I kick into oblivion
hotels,
strapped to jet-black
notebooks of frostry
hindsight.
Locate me at the edge
of a a West where no
revelation lasts
longer than Great Basin
rainwater.
from the chapbook "The Silver State"
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