After the First Shot
       

I run the dark winter
coatless and a shirt of briar.

Season of black sycamore
thickets, then the startle

of open fields. Bare feet
cracking earth. Each mile

birthing three more.
There are sorrel horses

herding inside of me.
In a four-legged night,

clouds sink into the trees,
refuse me morning

and mourning, but I pass
what I thought was the end

of myself. To answer
your rifle's last question:

if you ever find me,
I won't be there.

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Copyright © 2012 Saeed Jones All rights reserved
from West Branch
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission