Buffalo Bill
Across the sky, all afternoon
Great herds of albino buffalo,
Cumulusly, in mid-June,
Silently, whiter than snow,
Inch their way to the moon
Or, perhaps, much farther still,
To the green plains of eternity
Where a merciful
god will kill
Them with kindness, show mercy—
Like a benevolent Buffalo Bill.
When the last herd disappeared,
The sky turned spectacularly pink.
As a blood-red sunset neared—
A flood of innocence—I think
Of a non-ungulate with a beard.
Robert Forrey, 2012
