On I-90 in Big Sky Country, 1976

A below zero morning somewhere between 

Bozeman and Billings, a small blue-colored bird 

On a wire fence with the road ice keeping us moving along 

Slow enough to see its breath another cumulus cloud forming. 

Haunt

Time to get a move on, ghostbusters— 

Though the soda jerk’s a jack-off 

In spotless white, Pop’s soda fountain’s still 

A dark threat waiting round the corner, 

His Wurlitzer bubbles wet dreams 

Of youthful effervescence, it’s now or never— 

The old gang’s dying to get back there. 

Universal Poetic Aspirations

These galaxies keep spiraling 

Towards an infinite number 

Of impenetrable black holes— 

Don’t they know 

They can only go in so deep. 

Eating out of Our Hands

No matter where

They may be hiding

In the wilderness,

Every once in a great while

Little creatures venture out

And make us feel very small. 

Felled

Forget about that conundrum— 

Nothing sounds 

As clear-cut 

As a voice crashing 

In the wilderness.