not a nomad

Caring too hard about the welfare of the red earth

under my fingernails, and in the bowels of insects

I garden. I set my fangs in travel and am not a nomad.

 

over further hills a new soil, a new crop

I watch as the horses go up and come back

some with the same rider

some with a different rider

some with letters and treasure and no one to guide them

 

but the stars are hard brilliant free market gems.

I go out only when its dark to watch the campfires in the valley

where dogs howl and tomcats claw and clutch and babies cry

and newspapers clog the gutters under the incessant downward rain.

 

I couldn’t leave the two beautiful

bodies, quiet, loved/ and a gentle library of night times

leaves half-moon imprints on my heart

says you’re not going anywhere

shuts off stars one by one, spits the pips

 

but when I sit, and suddenly I’m everywhere and

sunlight and plenty at once I know how

to walk a slow road. Drums, gods,

poems have always laid down arms

and watched the dust of long rides rise.

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