My Moses

Big Jack and his walking stick

live on the ridge. Navajo

orphan kids dance for him,

bobcat urine’s in the weeds,

the shotgun barrel's up his sleeve,   

a Persian coin is on the wind.   

The Chinese Mountains smell the moon

and arch their backs. I tell him, Jack,

there’s times I wish I was living in

canvas France, the old west,

a picture book, the Sea of

Tranquility, or even in   

the den near the hot spring.

He says, kid, to hell with

phantom limbs; spring is a verb,

a wish is a wash, a walking stick   

is a gottdam wing.