Bleached Bones

Sagebrush, low in the sacred land
Holy, for nothing else wants the land
The untamed residents of this plant, earth
And the moon crescent, similar in birth
A scattering of stones, cracked in the sun
Winds down the mountain, scented in pinion
Postmark this from the antelope range
My life and I have become estranged
Lost in the haze, too far to see
Life by the river was too comfortable for me
The biscuits baked large, the shack too small
Rice sprouted where thrown, and it grew tall
Silver panned easy like cottonwood on the air
Enough for a bathtub, and a brush for the hair
Too much order, too little sky
Too many women catching my eye
Wanting to keep my feet from these brittle rocks
Bathe them, bandage them, and clothe them in socks
And if what the preacher says is true
If the man Jesus did this too
Then as my bones wash in the saline rain
The freedom I have sought, I will have gained