Prophet’s Rock
The sun a horse recumbent
in the dust
red as prairie grass traveling
to a distant hill.
Flies and rattles line
the braided mane.
I broke from the road
to approach
the sky of bone, unknowing
the call of its hollow.
A doorway of rock
emanates the prophet’s song
where two rivers cross
the field of the wounded.
The dead arise to sky half-blind
in the sign of eclipse
as black hooves splinter flint
and then trample the corn.
John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky. Least Bittern Books published his second collection, Under the Mountain Born.
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