Short Arctic desert day —
and someone left their snow-shoes in
The Tundra.
Look around every which way
but I can’t see just where the footprints
Go.
Is it a casual disappearance? —
plucked from the middle atmosphere
like straw wind-blown.
No speck on the horizon —
no simple message scrawled
upon the snow.
Unearthly visitation —
someone left their snow-shoes in the
Tundra.
Hungry buzzard flier
circling round and round
rattling death’s tambourine.
Have to run it down the cold wire —
late insertion in tomorrow’s lost and
Found.
Should I spread out searching? —
but I’m a little thin upon the ground.
So I raise my lips to coax
the last drop of brandy from the bottle.
Rest my feet and contemplate
the mystery that’s haunting
this Siberian space.
Show-shoes they bind me down —
I’m just one more parasite of the surface
Layer.
I begin to get the feeling
I’ve been on this stage before
and I’m the only player.
One more Arctic desert day —
another set of shoes out in the Tundra
Snow.
I make my fade to white-out
and you can’t see me where my foot-
Prints go.