GHOSTS

    1
wind hums the high powerlines
crickets sing in the whistling grass

weeds nod between stems of wheat
a tuft of blue grama honors the moon

feedlots stew a soup of fecal juice
cranes curdle the air above playas

broken coyote drags pelvis across I40
wolf pack shepherds a band of bison

chemical planes hotshot in the wires
a cottonwood tree cradles a nest of eagles

concrete hardens and asphalt steams
soil is soft and yields to roots and seeds

horses nicker on bare dirt ranchitos
horses scream in the cut throat of the night

diesel soot hangs with cottonfield dust
a mirage of gold glows either side of the sun

contrails of jets ex the blue
black anvils beat the sky to sparks with muscles of hail

tumbleweeds roll suicidal beneath the wheels of cars
elk bulls whistle and snort and mount swollen cows

pumps strobe the night with pools of blood and the earth pales without pain
veins open    arteries gush    and springs wet with ancient water


    2
the prairie is a place of ghosts
some wandering    some hungry
some where they should be
but invisible
their presence is like a haunting
so strange is their being
in the same place with us

the prairie is a place of spirits
where spirit is what a thing is
no more
it's harder to see them
wanting something to be
more than it is

the prairie is a place of desire
folding in on itself
moving into the slow fire of thunder
wilder than the manhowl
in the throat of the canyon night

the prairie is a place of losing
and holding on to what can only be lost
not losing anything let go
we become and they become
and all become together

the prairie is the place where time
is nothing
where cycles of sun and moon
are everything
where the planetary heartbeat ripples rhythms
all things possible between the thumps of star

the prairie is the place of speaking
in tongues of wind
in the sweat of rain
in the moans of roots
in the joinings of genitals
in the howlings of the whirlwind dogs
in the barchan dune curves of sandhill flesh
in the cutbank creases of glacial loess faces
in the scream of hawks ringing copper around the redtail sun
in the blood swollen risings of mountains heaving up the old skin of dead oceans
in the rivers snorting wind scraping feathers screaming teeth howling
    seeds rumbling horizon crashing stones babbling languages
we know without learning
the ghost tongues of the place always
there and here and to be here


    3
ghosts are mirrors
we see them clearly
when we see ourselves clearly
then haunting becomes being
forms of energy transforming

open your eyes ears nose mouth
wrap your skin around
the simple hugeness of the place
the prairie hums with tangible forms
only our minds

haunted


© 2001 by Richard W. Todd

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