SOLO JOE REVISITED

Mortality is our mother,

                                            mortality is what we hanker for

When the sun goes down.

                           And, boy, let me tell you, the sun goes down.

On Solo Joe Creek, for instance, the ribs of his cabin

Exist still, and the trace of the trail

The horses and mules packed in on,

                                                               and the mile-long trench

He diverted water to

To sluice down the rock and gravel shards the gold hid in.

Or did not, it seems, did not.

Distance clarifies the water sounds at 2 p.m.

What are we talking about, man, a dollar and a quarter

A year from these splotched waters?

                                                                There’s no horizon here,

Only the treetops and half-clouds chasing each other over the blue breaks of the sky.

It’s all gone.

I’d like to be sad, and say that every one of these outlines

Slices my heart and my memory.

But I have no memory of this,

                                       and my heart is as hard as the lost riprap.