Hazel Eyed Stars on the Rise
The 49er arrives with the virgin sunrise.
But the golden veins have long ago dried.
Pickaxe in hand, dynamite in his good eye.
He's the only one left of the calloused kind.
Back in spring, Blackjack the burro broke free.
Bolting for the last watering hole
Licking the salt from his reins.
Deeper and deeper the miner burrows in.
It's all about double blind commitment now.
The poison of pride over the succulence of time-
Willowy faith over the slag of good reason-
The gristle of isolation over nectar of companionship.
At the very edge of the dimming lamp light.
The black snake has all but tapped the vein dry.
A dusty angel sips the last of the moonshine.
The 49er rolls two stones over two black holes
that once were hazel stars on the rise.
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