El Hombre En Mi Hombro

The man on my shoulder
is no god-man.

Waiting to be picked clean
by crows over the wheat field.

Praying the dear dawn breaks,
a horn of the Bull
clips night in the upper thigh.

Sixteen flowerings ago,
I saw for the first time
all my tomorrows
hung from a moonbeam.

Pinch me, Jesus;
wake me from this corpse's dream.

Crucifixion
at the dead end of Blues Street.

--Gordon Moyer