Spur

We were at the place where the earth dips low
to follow the sun down to end the day.
Dusk, twilight, moon glare, blackness before dawn.
First light, mustangs covering the plateau,
men with guns on horses spurred to follow,
box canyon nothing wild enters and leaves,
hunters converging, surrounding, killing
as they murder their brethren for money
in the marketplace of the courtly damned,
strutting among the widows in their grief.
We who are impotent save in our words,
who travel without ammo or love’s hope
through the astonishing map of our lives,
take no ease in this land with time’s slim thread.

(6, 13 April 2012)

copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander