The next poem I write will have stars,
so densely packed a shooting star seems to leave
their dust in its wake.
About a coyote, with a stern look of a wise man,
that 1000 yard stare of a man with empty eyes
who has just come home from battle.
The coyote will look at me
with emerald eyes and there is a rush of blood
that goes to my head, and a sinking feeling
that what I saw wasn’t real, like
when you look at yourself in the mirror
and say your name too many times.
I will write about a gun
of chestnut and chrome,
fired in only the sound of rustling tumbleweed,
and I wait for the sound
to resonate off the mountains
before I chamber another round.
In my next poem there will be ringing
of bullets and the voices in my head. I
won’t tell you what they were saying though,
that’s just for me.