Boomslang Poetry

Memento Mori

Not for me the twinklings of
a distant star, sparkling in Orionís belt,
named for a hundred by hundreds.

I want to be that last sun-sinking band of
orange, flashing across the sky, lighting
iridescent the backs of dust-scuttling beetles

in that instant before the first owl swoops low
over the golden grass. I want to be the rays
that kiss the night fog as rolls, billows

and rocks in, hugging the mountains
like Christmas and refreshing the
strawberry fields with diamond drops.

For a second, I want to blind those
whose engines roar up the freeway,
combusting the cicadas. Look at me.