The valley of his youth is going slowly bald

El valle de su juventud va lentamente calvo

A sad fate in any language

for, the sky opens up and loosens river slicks

whereas the breasts of his love could belong to the moon

and god knows she was one frigid chick!

the names. and the prohibitions.

Those unspoken words that talk volumes through a suggestive glance.

So, what if an empty gesture was now his only friend

The trough of youth sending up smoke signals

like the mist rising off the river while the mountain hides in the air

of hot-geysered hubris, dam this landscape of testosterone and

stubbled grass, where cattle break turned table legs in bunny sockets

while elephants rest in empty back pockets, and in their shoes

a lather of lust and essential sweat, black floods

as you see a host of compensations

signed upon the wall

	reservations old men made

	warhooped-angry cries

the battle lines drawn, young men cry “fuck it”

girls and women rid their hair themselves in screwed anticipation

devoid, as he himself, of the living image, pictured now in memory.

And so all are hairless

the little fields of the valley floor have climbed its sides

	as broadacre paddocks that burn under a hard sun.

	Cattle hooves cut deep ridges into ground

	where wallabies once played invisible games and

	possums swung in branches while owls swept by

	on powerful wings and tiny bats danced against the moon.

so you see, the landscape is a toupee –

	to cover thus the valley of his youth

	And it doesn’t matter if it’s going bald