Old Rodeo Man

The ground is an absolute, the air lets 
you down. The way you leave your bronc sustains 
a conspiracy of violence you embrace 
the way you mean an oath. Forever. 
Without fault forfeit or regret— 
a repossession 
of what you will never let go, even 
when you lose stirrup 
grip and (if ever) your life. 

Some say God’s not in heaven, but 
in the fling of self into chaos, 
and He’s there not to stop 
your fall, but to join in 
the glory of your need to make every ride— 
if often much harder to ground 
than bone prefer—always as 
close to the whistle as will will provide.