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.

 

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Filed under Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

2 responses to “Dance In A Buffalo Skull

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