Silence

I dreamt I came back to my tent and found someone there, displacing me again

so that I hover, in the third wave, eating stars and watching starlight fall

on misplaced articles of earth, all the upraised and the downward

and the in between, the unbearably lonely backside of suburban

roadways, eucalyptus groves uninhabited except for security patrols

who unearth damp pornography and empty wild turkey bottles

a tribe from out of town was here, squatting and sorting black bags.

Something turns, either sun or moon, inside gymnosperms in spring

and I sport through outcast belongings

there's Jessica's panties again, soiled and unspeakably crusted together

with a set of polyester socks and some torn jeans-anything worthwhile

long gone-anything worth having taken by the last poor bastard to come through,

who had enough money for one cigarette, a half ounce of sauerkraut

and a pocket of wild turkey

lightly stupefied, in possession of less than an ounce of marijuana

perhaps he peeled himself to the core in that dark hour

or was enlightened, finally, by alcohol, so that he was changed

and found Bigfoot, high on the mountain facade, who never preaches but leads by silence

outlined on a treed horizon as fog eats headland in a master stroke.