THE BLACK VALLEY POEMS

FATAL MUSINGS

a wounded moon
above the trees
the ground's too hard
for digging

the river spills
into the fields

a scream then a whisper
from over yonder
the hills

a buzzard falls dead
from the oily grey sky

lock the barndoor
with a chain

we don't want no one
looking

there's a tall man
in a dark coat

this time of night
only a fool goes
into the woods

lest he has
something to hide

they'll find her
eventually

she was tired
of running

the old woman knows:

the sun's nothing
but brass shards arranged
in a perfect circle