cowboy poetry

the hypocritic days
like eagles on up high
as evening falls
in the dark and peace of my final bed
above them all, looking down
let me move slowly through the street
who will be naming the wind
there are three ways in which men take
there was a strangeness on your lips
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
why do
glass-blower of time
lived by the river-side
are you alive?