David Beebe

Hawk Moon


for Sam Shepard

I heard his braided stories of
cowboys and astronauts on the radio
through the charcoal filter he was known for,
a handwritten receipt of the wry Southwest.
In San Luis he leans against a door frame –
thin with sheep’s wool hugging the neck
of his denim jacket, cattleman cowboy hat
tilted, brim over his eyes, taking in the room.

The mountains from where I drink
their shadows slide into the sea, and
still their rivers breed continuity, hands
cupped in the cool, trickling flow like
the moon naked behind clouds.

Last night a coyote pup darted
in front of my truck on the way home.
I should’ve known it was you.

Originally published in The 3288 Review: Autumn 2019.

David Beebe

November



I like the cold, overcast days of autumn.
Mist freckling the windshield as leaves
shiver and take Golden Gate leaps into
their savior’s arms, being led across
golden shores and into windswept streets
and damp alleys, garbage bags, and
overzealous burn piles next to mailboxes.

Closets cough up college sweatshirts and
blue jeans for girls by the fire, hair as graceful
as American flags fanned by the cold, dead
breath of Rome, naked and auburn in last sunlight.

The birds that stay turn dusk to dawn
with their songs, their meanings so vast
even in death we’ll never fully understand.