Who

It was the blind girl from the rez who

stole the baker’s missing bread;

it was the guitar playing fool who crooned

and raced the wild mustangs through our heads.

It was the village idiot who played

his chess without the fool, the bowl

of soup who said too late, too late, too late

to blame the thread, the spoon, the text, the mole.

Beside the waterfall of fallen things

just east of town, it was the bearded man

attaching fallen things to angel’s wings

while singing legends to the long, long grass.

It was the moon who laughed and laughed.

It was the moon who laughed herself in half.