Coyote Song

Your nimble fingers harvest

Music from the wind, like a

Myna birds throaty affectations.

At times you seem bound, not

For highways, but the hallways

Of a pythonic egoism.

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The swagger of your jagged

Grin slices open my heart as

If a Reaper’s sickle, I pour

Into you like moonlight cool

And metaphysical, you extract

Me silver from a tremulous

Sensorium and in the night,

Like coyotes, we pursue a

Love that is unspeakable

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My limbs hum the violence

Of a precarious rapture, each

In our own fashion a train

Advancing to some immutable

End. In your vaulted heart the

City craves the consummation

Of a histrionic impetus to fame

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In my heart the prairie, the

Swirling momentum of a

Beatnik dance, the slow sultry

Pulse of a life not hemmed in

By glossy-paged conventions

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I am the Halcyon and you the

Phoenix, if we are destroyed

Only you will rise, so depart

With the sun, sing only and

Never speak of us again

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Submission for

The Sunday Whirl