Sunday, August 23, 2015

Campsites of Ghosts



Campsites of Ghosts

You drag yourself and your sidekick Wolfhound,
grainy wildfire-particulates air, for a another
sagebrush walk.  North, in front of flames,
deer, badger, back-scorched coyote...
the last wild pony... run for their lives.

Pale orange sun at bacon-cheese noon.
The Wolfhound hard-sneezes black smoke grit.
It's on your plate.  Then you're on a crumbled
blacktop road through dead bunch grass,
the hound circling haunted stone circles.

You tell your friend, Mouth's so dry...
could use a bulge of chewin' tobacco.
The lead-white/gray sky turns ash-yellow.
The weight of each minute is a saddlebag
of ripped cotton shirts wrapping bone.

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