From flint to stone the spark appears
A handful of sage and splintered desert brush
A smoky start to blunt the unforgiving chill
The night obscenely spared, by brutal sun untouched
A pleasant tease for barely half an hour
Stilled by cooling air and dark’s uncertainty
The flicker draws a ten gallon silhouette
Seen only by the rattle snake and scorpion
The outlaw pulls his knife from dusty saddle bag
Then turns to fallen horse and makes a cut
The liquid pours like water from a rock
Chapped lips twitch in final prayers unspoken
God’s salvation, the manna and the blood
Nausea and death to follow in the morning
The desert endless, the soul lost
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
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