Hawk; Ante–

To Cheyenne, an old friend

I am yours, I am yours;

you bring me to my asterism set like in stars’ 

marching patterns. Loosed full in the rogue universe,

set in verse so to always remember. To this turning, turning: visioned, you, 

catenary lips & raw cheeks. Strong mouthed too; it is good to chop wood

& carry water. Spaulders, flushing; diluvian, protracted.

Slow-dropping the boulder of a belly. Your lateen mind 

ululates the last great american thought, peeping the divine 

through honeycomb sight. Housing romance 

of the divide, you 

carbon gimmick, you. All accidental quantization.

Funny through & through, & odd 

auto-tuned grace. & then you 

gaze toward on and on

alchemizing.