In The Rut

[QDeathstar]

IN THE RUT

We looked in rose-colored mirrors and saw divining rods.
Now though, that glass gone grain,
I only see sand.

I see we are some dead river, bed without water,
where coyotes sniff clay with no scent,
and smoke trees pretend at smoldering.

We are where a desperate buck bends
in irreverent rut,
and nothing more, save a map for tumbleweeds.

on paper, this poem is OK, with a few awkward phrasing and a lot of interesting images of decay. However, I think this poem would benifits greatly from being spoken, as the inflection at key moments could elevate the work.

I just imagine a New Orleans Jazz man speaking this out and it becomes almost real.