Allure of the Western Sky

He wandered by day, wrote poems by firelight,
of dry riverbeds and nuggets’ golden glare,
of Native artistry, elf owl wisdom, moonlight
deep in the whiskey of his Mason jar. Drunk as a
dust devil; he and the coyotes all howling—Awoooo!

He wrote of city life left behind—good riddance!—
of art-nature-soul in perfect harmony,
his muses born of red rock and desert sky,
painted horizons bringing him to his knees.

At other times, in the grip of peyote, he wrote
of card-playing scorpions on his sleeping chest,
of snakes much too large, their rattles echoing
through the canyon of his psyche. Nerves prickly as a
cactus; all the upright coyotes dancing, dancing.

In later days he named and spoke to boulders,
wrote pitiful letters to his wife back in the city.
He shuddered now beneath that dark, ceaseless sky,
its star-oozing nights too deep, too unknown!

Some say the self-inflicted gunshot stank of fear.
Some say evil spirits. Others, artistic failure.

Some say the West just ain’t no place for a poet.

First published in Spectral Realms in 2021.