Last night the Hunter’s
Moon came looking for you.
She lit a wedding parade, boys
searching the street for a fix. Confused
by your death, your loved ones try
to marry each other. Are we only
bone, skin and urge?
I miss you more than ever.
We are flaying our way into
fall, breeding war horses
on the borders of sentences.
Your hawks migrate cliffs on the yawn
of canyon winds. Glossed with leaf
and moon, your rafted rivers, golden.
The Great Square Has No Corners
