Dance In A Buffalo Skull

We rise in flaxen grass as the sun peels back,

revealing primeval wounds which congeal in the shadows

of our eye holes. Kŭt-o´-yis.


This field was mine, it belonged to a thundering tribe,

whose hooves set fires thousands of miles across the

gold-lit prairies.


Now they are gone, chased from the skies over Brokenhead.

They drum their songs in my skull, where the wigwams sway

in the slaughtering wind.




Filed under Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

2 responses to “Dance In A Buffalo Skull

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