To David P.

As if David was
Poetry. It mat be and is because
Out West it
Is dusty not moist
And fetid. Filling the
Mustangs are dappled under
It is now past hours back. David was
Not a
Prophet David was a
Cowboy.
Is.
If…
If!
His voice
Rarely carries. The blue-bonnets
Are stained mercury at dusk
The stars are coyotes and antelope
In jumping and the rabbit moon falling
Alongside.

"In the city of David"

Greeley lay upon the oak-wood
And leafy peppering of his hair
He brings
The creakings of horses forward. David
Is Something about God,
It must be. He.
There are cicadas and
Dryness it is June(in-Moscow)
In Cheyenne
In Galveston

The air
Is salt upon
Your hair
And your
Eyes are
The only
European
Feeling of
You. We
Are not in
London(Moscow)

In Kansas City a man died once. He is about the halls, treading
Intent and horse-dappled,
Stars(and
Shorebirds)of
David