Cibola Sleeping
The Bears never came.
Last night, charcoal gray sky
Filled with stars, more stars
Than the eastern skies allow,
Watched over me as I climbed toward
Clearing to piss into the stillness
Of cool night at 3am,
Fire burnt down to embers.
I took a deep breath,
Closed my eyes, tried to imagine
In the great emptiness, where I was,
Where I had been, where I was going still,
What I had left, what I had to go back to—
I listened for any rustling in
The 1.6 million acre darkness beyond
The woods, ancient, tall, breathing,
Looked into my tired soul,
I faded like falling stars in their stare.
Bio: T. Pesky
Born in philly currently living outside Baltimore. I always held a kind of mythical love and longing for the west. I was also (and still am) obsessed with hobos and hobo culture (im an archivist and historian focused on labor and non-violent resistance to gentrification by migrant skid row communities in the mid 20th C) I grew up in the Folk punk community and hopped my first train in hs going from south to north philly. after undergrad me and friend spent 2 years hopping trains and hitchhiking and finally GETTING OUT WEST! After that I spent 7 years driving across the country at least once a year. My poetry is driven by movement and travel and my love of the west and never quite being able to catch it. Gotta keep moving.