By David Cappella
I had your visions atop the Medicine Wheel
one July afternoon and while driving Rte. 14
through Spotted Horse where I walked past
a row of caged coyotes to take a piss.
How the American Tao your words captured
shined on me one night outside of Sheridan
as I sat on a boulder with Jim and viewed
the milky way while cattle grazed nearby.
It hurts to tell you there are no saints anymore
and not even poets dare use the word ‘infinity’
nowadays. If it appears, it appears in glossy photos
from deep space telescopes. No wonder
I hear your voice now in the empty, naked sky.
I want to cry. There are no angels on the road.