All I've Got Left Is Time Travel No. 2

[TranquillityBase]

Words come too late.

Arrows come quickly,
searing thumps that startle the bulls.
Stone point embedded in the hillside
blood of a bison heart 
smeared on its shaft.

Buffalo scatter
surrounded by their oceanic prairie
where the Sun God rests his hands
worn rough from making mountains.

Drums sound celebration of the hunt 
of carcasses motionless in the moonlight, 
dogs are barking around the fire pits
shouts and songs of the hunters.

Words come too late
to know their songs.

v. 4
Words come too late.

Feathered missiles come quickly

stone point embedded in the hillside

blood of a bison heart 

smeared on its shaft.



Buffalo scatter

surrounded by their oceanic prairie

where the Sun God rests his hands

worn rough from making mountains.



Drums sound celebration of hunt 

of carcasses motionless in moonlight, 

dogs are barking 

shouts and songs of the hunters.



Words come too late

to know their names.















v. 3

Words come too late



the dogs are barking



feathered missiles come quickly



stone point embedded in the hillside



blood of a bison heart 



smeared on its shaft.







Buffalo scatter



surrounded by their oceanic prairie



where the Sun God rests his hands



worn rough from making mountains.







Drums sound celebration



of hunt and conquest



of carcasses motionless



and shouts and songs of the hunters.







Words come too late



to halt a century’s forgetfulness.



















v. 2



Words come too late



after the wind is still



licensing reverie.



Words come too late



the dogs are barking



feathered missiles come quickly



stone point embedded in the hillside



blood of a bison heart 



smeared on its shaft.







Buffalo scatter



surrounded by their oceanic prairie



where the Sun God rests his hands



worn rough from making mountains.







Drums sound celebration



of hunt and conquest



of carcasses motionless



and shouts and songs of the hunters.



















v. 1



Words come too late



long after the wind has stilled



the broken laminations



spangled sunlight.



Words come too late



the dogs are barking



the feathered shafts come quickly



stone points embedded in the hillside.







Buffalo scatter



surrounded by their oceanic prairie



where the Sun God rests his hands



worn rough from making mountains.







Drums sound the celebration



of hunt and conquest



of carcasses motionless



and the shouts and songs of the hunters.