“I know who you are and you —
you, young man are Murder”

Perhaps a carpet or two may serve a tourist well…

I will not be fooled by
green shoots in November…

The broken bowl of an oxhead
meerschaum and the iron mouth…

How many nights, in the hard sweats of a name have I stood over you…

What is ritually done — prayer say or stacking coffee cups…

somewhere in the hard truth of the plains…