The Ritual of Coffee
July 2, 2017
none but god
July 9, 2017

Zebulon Pike—in fitfulls—cascaded up
the stoic crests—the crusted ice—the
wind-whipped backside of the Rocky Mountains
before scoring her chest with heels and wheels and
pikes—an abuse never reconciled.
Black and blue; purple under dusk, and silent now.
What’s left for me?

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