Coward, Liar, Thief

The reporter has been waiting for this.

The aging astronaut appearing

beneath the overhang of a government building,

stepping into the sun as though he belonged there.

The reporter’s grip tightens around his microphone

as he moves it toward the astronaut’s sad face.

His look of surprise. Say it, the other grins.

There’s nothing up there at all. You’re a coward, a liar, and a thief.

The aging astronaut is wearing his starry night necktie

when he punches the reporter in the face.

The reporter has launched back into himself

and landed in the third grade, groundscrapes

on the heels of his palms, pain-thrill bounding

through his skull like a song. The astronaut’s shadow

lengthens in the gold, hot light,

til it’s longer than all the men in the world.

You Might Be the Last Light I See

for Brian Rawlins

The night between

Amarillo and Pueblo

was thick enough to drink

so we drank it walking beams

barely pulling God knew what

from the sands, cattle bristling

in their pens crowded as Christmas

trees, fattening, blank, all of them

soon to be surprised by the axe

or the air gun depending

on the technology darkening

the slaughterhouse—each of us

faces his death alone

and if we’re lucky

we know this soon enough

to fall down with each other

even if we know how dark

it’s going to be we never

know what shade

of day awaits us.