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.
Evening Panoply 