by Bruce Morton
The shepherd has taken leave,
a no account. Wild
and wooly are the sheep,
coutless to the nth power—
flocking sheep, herds, hordes,
at warp speed,
insulating the crimped brain
from respite.
Instead,
labored breath, dry mouth,
restless wrestling with sheets,
pillow and, yes, wool blanket.
And then to awaken, again,
bleating woven dreams
and there looming large
that damned itch deep,
deep in the sole.
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Bruce Morton was born in New York City. As an adult, he heeded Horace Greeley's advice to "go west," by way of New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Minnesota. For the past thirty years, he has lived in Bozeman, Montana, where his day job was as a librarian at Montana State University, while also teaching Honors seminars.
