sapentiae

ghost hunting
with mother and father

like the moment was trapped
in an air pocket of brain -

out sighs the rush and smell of Wyoming dirt on the wind,
of nightmare pits carved into ribs of earth,
of lonely decay behind false-fronts;
communal memories dying
in the lonely folk museum.

for a moment, this moment recedes
and my eyes fixedly recall
that sign swinging on its rusting hinge -
or was that in France,
on that cobbled quaint alley in Bretagne,
but oh no back again
to dust and death
in the american west -

grit in my hair


trees, and more trees, and hills and nothings and roads
and nothing is what i conclude