Posted: August 28, 2010 in My Poetry
Tags: , , , , ,

No matter how barbed,
fences can’t hold them.

are almost always there
at night,
flexing their muscles
against the road;
against a lonely map
of blood
fading into the hill.

Mule deer
drift from sagebrush,
follow ravens
to earlier stains.

Cloudy eyes
catch, snag
on scraps of fur,
of rib, of vein,
of deer
slammed bleeding
to darker hills
where morning
never breathes,

and the great
like fur scraps
on the road.

Audio Reading

  1. Kristal says:

    I like the rhythm you have here. My own writings tend to be a steam of conscience and I could never put it as shortly, but nicely, as you.

    • Thanks, but I like your style of writing. Stream of consciousness writing really grabs my attention because reading it makes it seem like I’m there, feeling it. It would be a boring world if everyone wrote the same!


    i am fond of poetry

  3. Brian Carlin says:

    The whole flavour of this piece sits as one together…and it is sinews and night
    a really good wriite….i like this

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