And you
still tied to the buttery spread
of a desert’s yellow light
frustrated as your heel strikes sharp
at the coarse-haired withers
of your camel
draped in Bedouin wool,
stopping short, once again,
to chew green shoots off a desert shrub.
And me
alone
in a valley
beneath this run of hills
licking berryspread from a sleeve,
humming Bowie tunes
amongst buffalo grass headhigh,
catching these whispers —
these small annotations
that bend the grasses in their invisible drag…
the weary dance across the tops
across the endings
across this sea of green.
— FRED RAGSDALE
Fred Ragsdale is a Los Angeles-based poet. He is a father, a wanderer, and a lover of books, jazz and baseball. He spent seventeen years feet hard to the ground, sleeping in Himalayan caves and tropical island lean-tos and now finds inspiration walking the hidden streets of his city with his dog. He writes about fatherhood, love and loss, Taiwanese night markets, and lazy days staring up at clouds.