Billy The Kid
The radio that told me about the death of Billy The Kid
(And the day, a hot summer day, with birds in the sky)
Let us fake out a frontier – a poem somebody could hide in with a sheriff’s posse after him – a thousand miles of it if it is necessary for him to go a thousand miles – a poem with no hard corners, no houses to get lost in, no underwebbing of customary magic, no New York Jew salesman of amethyst pajamas, only a place where Billy The Kid can hide when he shoots people.
Torture gardens and scenic railways. The radio
That told me about the death of Billy The Kid
The day a hot summer day. The roads dusty in the summer. The roads going somewhere. You can almost see where they are going beyond the dark purple of the horizon. Not even the birds know where they are going.
The poem. In all that distance who could recognize his face.