At the campfire I run my fingers through my hair
as a woman might, one of us the sacrificial lamb.
The wind has gone as embers glow like the vermilion
floors of Limbo, a reminder that home is not a place
and you certainly cannot go there again.
Across the lake there is a coyote effort to stir the soul,
much like the street evangelist this morning outside
the gas station with his band of grim disciples, clean cut
in their Sunday suits, looking on as their child king treats
open air to Lamentations and Revelation as if it were
Macbeth and Waiting for Godot.
Evening Panoply 