Two Poems
Western
The hunter with
amplifier
plays coyote
calls along
canyon walls.
Each loping
interloper on
owned land dropped is
50 dollars—
“50 dollars a pop”
you could say
and mean it
or anything,
it wouldn’t matter
to the popped dogs
rigored in
truck beds or
hanging
in DNR
freezers, their ears
that flicked
at faintest footfalls snipped
for samples,
meaning—managers
project—more
deer tags, more
temporary positions
stripping coyote
fur for
“rabbit-foot”
keychains.
Throwing Stones
Trucks salt the roads
Senators salt air
Where does salt go?
I asked a dry creek
It didn’t know
It answered dead flies
It answered dry wings
Dry thousand-facet eyes
What’s the meaning of this?
I asked, throwing stones
It echoed out Watchmaker!
Intricate! Intricate!
For all your not seeing
The better to not see you with
