Next week –
Ten –
A new set of bones
Old and burned white
By the dead tiger moon

Will I climb up?
Or will I stand down?

I don’t think there’s a choice
Or a need to explain

To wise men
To fools
To doctors
To books

All they carry is baggage
More grist for its teeth

So
Leave it alone
And leave it all there

Look to the distance
No need to look back

I have seen the carnage
And it’s far safer here

The clean sun of my shelter
Covered not casting
Any more blood for the trail