As if calling a name
let our prodigals turn back—

as if this diamond-cut valley
proved anything of god—

a boy waits in the dark
trying to lead a man

between two worlds. He imagines
hoof-clip and holster rattle—

a bandaged hand
clutching the black orchid

of an open wound.
The afterlife, too, stands open,

but the boy isn’t ready
to turn away or go to sleep—

he’s ready for footsteps,
a struggle, shadows in the plains—

as if angels crossed these skies
on horseback

or moonlight
were another animal to tame.