This poem was written almost 5 years ago as a companion to "At the Graveyard".
Floating Under Only The Dusk In Bridgeport, Nebraska
To swim here is murder.
The lonely eddies, flowing silt
the quicksand of the sandhills.
And when you sink, nose stopped
with mud, look up into the sun
drowned into brown, to night, to nothing-
The willows swap shadows, crickets
rolling in from the North.
There is only the dusk
between us now.
Above me, your abandoned sandals,
more dust than leather,
grow into the grass.
You were not there when they found me
my chest slumped in folds, like a fault
after the last trembler.
I drifted down like the stone Indian
perched on the Missouri
And storms marched over my grave.
The underground makes home for none, but you
burrowed out your stake.
You, the quiet sentry,
crouched in stale air
And giants roam the earth.
You are the stone at the end of the world.
Beyond movement, the sand
carves lines along your face,
before the final fall.
My flowers sewn into the soil
You stoop, three months
into the dirt, to kiss the stone
my day of birth.
I have died empty, never trying you.