A LOVE POEM FOR A YOUNGER CLINT EASTWOOD
The men in this desert want to be ghosts,
hiphugging bullets, forgetting how conquest
can leave your palms unheld and your face,
more of a folded map than an undiscovered land.
The women left behind—
her ankles, a beacon fostering a generic lust
a light exposing their empty slivers and wounds,
I feel for these men; it must be difficult,
seeking ways to worm their heads to the surface.