Two Poems

Comstock

I am
blasting at mountains
cause I could never hit a woman

in my fist I hold
solid packed gold
but I grab for you in the dark
and find soft skin
a whiteness that
glows like the moon

the water answers a sharp pitch
rocks fall like streams
then roots
then dust
water follows
being just that

some things call for dynamite and for
some my hand has a name
and creeps towards permission

when it is not allowed
by geography
or law
the hand finds a point
to sharpen towards
i accuse the mountain
for it cannot reply

i imagine
it must be a relief
to fall away around the lode
like linen

i fill my pockets to wade
in the river and float
with the weight of fortune
despite which my foot leaves
no mark

when you raid a mountain
you must tiptoe
away lest the coon
or the fox come
find you

i require a certain
softness but I demand
a prolonged roar
in the bar
so the returning is a
slow stagger uphill
a measured defiance of gravity
an old hounds hunt
for home
i could break the rock
for I was sprung from the
earth in a knot
but I could never strike a woman



Dry Lipped Vaquero

the dust rose up like a sunset
                          out of the earth
the earth pulsed and beat but it was the sound of hoofs on the dirt
the beating being absorbed
and returned
like a rumbling echo
a hungry, empty belly

we sleep with our feet hanging out the flap, toes a perch for the nightjars

when you lie with a woman
                          you lie on your back
                          your body taking what rest it can find

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