Bird Dog

You cannot save me.
I’d wish you try.

To glimpse the torches’ dusty eyes.
To hear the church of their wild dismay
alight the smoky tongues of creek.

Like a braille of us,
which said, at least,
you came near.

Tourists

It looks like it’s me,

this yellow couch

in this window of particle and light.

Can we be sure

or do we confuse certainty

with things that stay?

When I hear you call my name

like a lighthouse,

like a shaft of dust in sun,

does that bring us nearer

to an answer,

or to that bluff

we’d never perfectly pronounce,

the capital of emptiness,

that place we’d see, sometimes,

up above the bay?