When the questions of midnight’s skirt,
waiting there,
parted soft and ready
a warm mossy nook
where the young boy
rests his soft-hair.

When the chances run dry
like a springtime creek
in the sandy Arizona
mountainlands
beneath spruce
within that sharp
drifting scent.

When I learn
that I’ve been wrong
all along right along
and now I know and yet
can alter zip,
amend nought,
save nothing
from the pointless
feckless, wreckless,
tossing, turning,
licking, splitting
flames.

Where is God?
Where is Jesus?
Where is the Buddha?
Where is the strength
that knows how to help?

I’m so sorry
said the hand that fell
to his dark-robed side,
floating a half-read note
upon brown and white marble.

I’m so sorry
said the scuzzy dewed eyes
beneath flopsy felt-brimmed hat,
wandered out and caught out
in the dustblown, scratchy blanket
cowboy posture.

I’m so hurt by what I’ve become
said the blood on his hands
in the water on the thick piney needles
in the yellow orange purple blue black
sliding sun against the edge
where mountains cut.

I’m so let down by who I’ve
found within my life,
so disappointed by the one
that I’ve ended up being
too late
and where is the beauty
that had once seemed
so close and certain sure?

Come back please,
someone who speaks and listens
someone who holds and believes
someone who I know enough
to care about.

Come back please,
whatever would make this OK.