Here's another. This one is from a good 5 years ago... it blows my mind how quickly time rolls by.
At the Graveyard
I hated God.
She frowns saying it, words
sharp periods above us.
The ground does not split.
To the east a floating hawk,
blue paint, white canvas curls,
Against the sky. In a camera's cross,
Her hair sleeks forward, cuts air,
Black, flapping thunderbolts.
I have no camera. I wouldn't dare,
We may as well be on our knees.
Like Chartre, the dusty ghosts
Scrape shins for hours, each endless
a closing loop, the cloister
Still out of reach. Renae drags up
The gravel slope, up, and into a blue
Yawn. Just this morning
I think of us, seventeen in the Sioux
Tri-State, home of War Eagle,
Tossing milkcaps into the Missouri.
Past purple clots of Iowa deep
in Louisiana, who knows, maybe
They found open water. Few escape
Iowa, the running joke. Renae's father
Found Nebraska with an arc-welder
And a thousand tons of methane.
His shadow spinning small over the river,
And each black bone covered
By Con Agra, Blue Cross.
The hawk sails into the sun.
Knees rough into the gravel,
Renae clambers down her slope,
A handful of daises, and a white cross
sprung from her father's arm.