Artifact Of A Disappearing Act

for Lew welch

They found his pistol
but they never found him.
He walked off into the Southwest,
empty, in evening, empty of it all,
his pace stepping towards an end.

Pistol slipping from fingers
wrapped by habit around the grip.
A prized gift gone the way of all things given,
which he didn’t notice fall.

Planets made wild pendulum motions
rocking around the sky
in their conjunctions and assents,
yoyo of time flying away.
He moved slowly, a somnambulist
wading, pushing, walking out of the dream
all over again, one last goddamn time.

He was crooning a song, alone;
an old song made before words,
a hum, a murmur, a susurration,
grumble, mutter, roar, mumble, purr, ring,
almost all vowels, intoned in a soft, low, growl.

The steps he made were light
under the burden of his life awry.
He quickened his motion,
his keening tune,
and once,
he thought in brief flash of running
in night meditation down a steep hill trail,
remembering the exhilaration.