Out in West Texas high desert, maybe he’s at peace.
The stars might still be seen in such a small town.
The war took the moon away from her golden comb.
The city once again fell into the sea, a dream faulted.
A revolutionary war, after a loved drank all life away.
The deserts were filled with hungry coyotes so very bitter.
A mass grave where an owl keeps watch, preying on bodies.
Maybe buried in the sky, bones white, all the venom evaporated.
But I knew a nun, old and tired, that told a tale of your death.
Taken back to Texas, name unknown but a food to the gods.
Calling out to the moon to come back, her to come back,
for the moon to cool your brown and make you drink cold waters.
Midday, in a summer of dry grass and temperamental signs,
you slipped away, no cold waters for your cracked, dry lips.
A misheard name on your stone, a devil in your letters home.
Or more accurately, a Satan, who saw their sins, and your own.