better the spruce
and how it takes winter
as mantle…

your grace peppered with stone cold rain and the cruel intents…

she was vodka straight and easy in her clan sacred in a way…

the stew of our lives
cools in that blue porcelain
bowl we save for Sundays…

We could be elsewhere but for the oaths we keep…

five coyotes wail in the thick
white hills beyond the gulch …

i like films where nearly everybody dies…

the feedlot down the road
keeps five hundred black cows…