He met the moon and stars up close
Mirrors of a new disgrace.
Hatched under a hedge in wild Missouri
No compass or map; no direction
Just forward and future and certain furore.
Sand and Sioux, longing and thirst,
And always the question; who would survive
It maybe came down to who caught his horse first.
Loose as dawn and tight as noon
Face a collection of forgotten smiles
Just there; linger note of a banshee croon.
Ashes like Lent Wednesday in Sligo town
Mississippi glancing sideways at Wilsons Creek
The whip-poor-will inviting perdition down.
Just a simple sight some distance ahead
Like beauty and lesser swapping places in the face
Deposits from the living in accounts of the dead.
Lace and shawl of winter on the shoulders of the hills,
Peering at the past through concave lenses
Bitterness buried in unmarked drills.