in moving streams, down dark hillsides,
reflects the faded glow of stars
and moon beneath the trees, the clouds,
blood through my veins, poems
in my soul, wonton acts
of kindness and of evil,
of love and hate,
of hope and lonliness.
I stand hatless in this rain,
let it wash off the day,
the evening, a lifetime,
things I'd said that I ought not,
things I'd not said that I ought.
Left a distressed friend, turned down
another drink with him.
Distracted, didn't kiss my woman
when I left this morning.
Raised my kids in stony silence,
never hugged them once,
they seldom saw me smile;
I'd tried to teach them right from wrong,
but they paid me no mind.
Looking up, I see the rain is slacking off,
an edge of cloud is backlit
where the moon is struggling to break through,
the way it was one night,
a muddy tree line by some rain-soaked field.
A silhouette appeared from nowhere
right there in front of me, I could have
reached out and touched him.
He never saw me, and I didn't shoot him.
Then ten steps further on my sergeant slit his throat.
Turned out it wasn't he, but she.
I still hear the dying gurgle breathing in her blood.
The rain is almost stopped.
I turn back to the house,
see my woman on the porch
a towell offered in her hands.
"You OK?" she asks.
"Yeah." I dry my arms,
hand her back the towel,
sit down and let her dry my hair
and cradle my head
against her belly.