The Post-Modern Shaman
by S. M. Hutton
conjures.
(A ride to the give and take creak of saddle leather.)
Hooves step carefully over a place
in an eerie primordial mud where a very
strange anemic plant branches
under the thick thatch of last season’s grasses.
A hoof sucks at the same mud the odd plant roots in.
This is no crossword puzzle,
there’s no way to make it come out neatly.
Grasping at spring gnats,
there are two suns in the plant’s heaven.
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