Thursday, November 03, 2005


I remember
days of dreaming hunger
of thin-waisted rage
against the inside
of an empty belly.

My dreams were
desert highways
hot and endless
under a burning
hemisphere of blue
charred white
at the margins
yellow-gray sand
and the
strange geometry
of geography
sculpted by
the ruthless elements
of vast spaces.
Melting pavement
shimmered black
toward the mountains
on the bubble-curve
of the horizon
as I stood barefoot
in spiky prairie wool
at its edge
in the aloneness
of wishing
on uncomplete


Lucy said...

I like the fact that it says 'aloneness', and not 'loneliness'.
What is that one thing that would change the 'aloneness of incomplete urges'?

coyote said...

Hi, Lucy. I'm glad you caught that. There's a world of difference between 'alone' and lonely'.

And are we now playing One Thing instead of Seven Things? Okay, I think perhaps it would be having one of those urges completed.... although that has almost never felt the way that I imagined it would, beforehand. And I think that sort of imagining may be very private, very individual, very specific to each of us.

lucy said...

Coyote, till the next poem comes along, it will be only one thing at a time.
I smile.