The Great Square Has No Corners

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.

From We Are Meant To Carry Water