The Last of The Mohicans

Saw-toothed fiddle, warm with fire
I lie sick and failing,
too tired to close my eyes.
My past goes through me like water;
I no longer own it.
My sister is a star
that watches me through the smoky sky.
The river is very far below the forest,
twisting ever changing,
there is no solace for me.
The frame through which I
watch becomes the expanse
of the grass-spread lands,
the sky topping horizons,

(riding the ledgers, forested boulders,
the black wood swims to cover me up,
charging through the hunted trees,
then I know I
can fly), then back into my
window, prison of my heart.

Our shoes are beyond our legs,
legs slanting passing, the beach
goes by us. Legs are angles of
the sun-slant terrain, top
of the valley.
The thick warm brown of the sun
does not understand fatigue in
the harvest land.