The Missoula Tempest

On the horizon
waits
The Missoula Tempest
to whisk me
from this landscape

Withered
dried up
my busted heart
and a lifetime of bruises
add up to nothing

Comfortable in the whirlwind
which hurls the skeletal remains
of both sage and weeds
into barbed wire

Awaiting the approach,
The Missoula Tempest

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Filed under American West, outlaw poetry, poetry

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