All Saints' Day

At the All Saints’ Day Parade,
A host of the blessed
March down the boulevard, a creek
Of meek, forthright faces
And simple tunics. Here
And there, the brown-gray array
Is augmented by a buckler, a milk-pail,
A purple robe.
Fishermen, bishops, and midwives
All pass, pleasantly enough,
Until the crush of martyrs
Comes crowding the procession’s end.
There is hollow-cheeked
Stephen, hauling
A quarry-full of stones. Clement is dragging
His anchor, and Vitus is wheeled
In a cauldron. Agatha steps gingerly,
Balancing her sliced breasts like dinner rolls
On a platter. Saint Lucy is fishing
Eyeballs out of her pocket, and I
Too find my hands digging into my slacks,
Feeling sheepishly a pen, wallet, lip balm.

"Old West Outlaws"

Old West Outlaws

Though wasteful with the buffalo, the Old Westerners
Knew to use every last part of a good outlaw, every inch
Of their spangled names and bullet-burnished skin. Two-
Bit boys from Independence vaunted over the callow hands
Which, they said, blazed down this devil from Cochise or that snake,
from Durango, their stampede of competing claims
Bleeding each fearful syllable dry from names like “Black Jack Ketchum.”

Nor, once dead, were those bodies inviolate. A Philadelphia banker
Might slip from his pocket a wallet tanned from William
H. Bonney’s stomach, oblivious to George Washington’s green,
papery face caressing that spot once marked by the lay of
a lover’s fingers, or the slice of a hot knife in El Paso.
Supply and demand, of course, meant that there are
Only so many wallets to go around, but those names
Take a long time to dry out. They slipped off wagon-wheels
Into the plains, slipped from mumbling mouths into cracked alley-ways,
Bleaching slowly in the broad Western sun.