To him the window broken in the church
guaranteed oblivion. He ran out naked
in a record winter for Wyoming.
He said nothing’s more heroic than a road
curving with the river warm away from farms
like horses curving into fog. He said a road
hardens like a man from weather.
We said good riddance to his crazy chatter.
One year later, we gave the day he left
a number not found on a calendar.
To celebrate the mayor composed a song
about a loving dog who killed ten snakes
to save the mining camp. We sang that loud
around the fire and we mocked the man.
Jokes turned into stories. Suddenly the lyrics
were about the fear of man, that man
most of all. Sweet Nick, we sang, Sweet Nick
(a name we’d given him), come home. The surface
of the river twitched from nerves. Swallows
strafed the trout in terror and when we screamed
old hymns our new church shook and broke.
Maybe he was right, the hope of roads goes on
and on. We found bones we think were him.
If not, why were they raving in the heat
and why would he head any way but south
where early every spring the roads suck blood
from rivers and the first chinook blows in,
blows in lemon and the yellow melts the snow.