Panther Winds
The poet with the false voice
Is laboring to be true as the
Blast of a truck horn
On a foggy morning
Crossing the Jacob Fork River.
True as the motionless cows
Grazing on tick weed by a
Sour gap of stunted maples.
Panthers are just one of
The things he doesn’t believe:
Existence being the better part
Of blood proof he also applies
To gods and any holiness
A man might assign
To beer kisses or
Half fuzzy shadows,
Convinced he has found
Himself in the distance
And the absence of light.
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