“Vagabond” by Zachary Johnson

179 Replies

Under a pine tree,
where one may bed
upon the bed
of God,
I’ve molded
my own moon
out of the stuff
we call
solitude,
and hanged it
from a June beam
on the new night
of black
beginning.
Who is opening
a door
of wind
from hell? I
pretend to ask as
tractor-trailers
cast
air
beyond the bleak
shoulder
I sit
on, alone, mourning
distance
to morning. Shoulder,
as in days
both shoulders of God
passed
through my shuddering
dreams of mountains.

-Zachary Johnson

179 thoughts on ““Vagabond” by Zachary Johnson”

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