"Christmas Comes to Moccasin Flat"

Christmas comes like this: Wise men
unhurried, candles bought on credit (poor price
for calves), warriors face down in wine sleep.

. . .

When drunks drain radiators for love
or need, chiefs eat snow and talk of change,
an urge to laugh pounding their ribs.

* * *

"Blue Like Death"

You see, the problem is
no more for the road. Moon fails
in snow between the moon
and you.

. . .

Now you understand:
the way is not your going
but an end. That road awaits
the moon that falls between
the snow and you, your stalking home.

* * *

"Blackfeet, Blood and Piegan Hunters"

Let glory go the way of all sad things.
Children need a myth that tells them be alive,
forget the hair that made you Blood, the blood
the buffalo left, once for meat, before
other hunters gifted land with lead for hides.

. . .

Look away and we are gone.
Look back. Tracks are there, a little faint,
our song strong enough for headstrong hunters
who look ahead to one more kill.