Poetry

Spring 2009

 

 

Kryssa Schemmerling

Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid (1973)

It's always late
afternoon here, light
bloodied, dust shuffled
on desert wind as banditos hang
around empty squares
of empty towns
like rock 'n' roll legends alone
at last after a long gig.
Everyone, everything
moves slowly as though the very air
was stoned, the West old
as stars
whose best days
are behind them.

 

 

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