Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Saddle the Wind by Howie Good

I touch the top of my head,
and my fingers come away with blood.

Send condolence cards,
send a reason, send the moon out

for a second encore.

Such mysteries occur all the time,
and without anesthesia,

but I call like it’s an emergency
because that’s what

people bereft of wonder do.

And who is this? the woman
who picks up asks.

Oh, to be a cowpuncher
sleeping it off in the town jail.

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