wherever you find

the spot was hot, the mood was spent, the calf had run its course

perhaps a breeze would meet his wheeze, for now the code was morse.

tap, thwap, astumble, rumble dash, dit dat the fingers played

upon that chest, a-flannelled west, no doubt these were the days.

Come rattle snake, come scorpion tail, come monster with a gila full of bite

a man can only thump so hard before he slows and waits for night.

some choose the frigid blocks of ice, where dazzle flakes their flurry.

for him the desert was the place to prove he feared no hurry . . .