The pioneers are now easy to dismiss. Go figure.
Rattlesnake with a taste for the leg of sis. Go figure.

A queen’s robe behind them, bloodhound on blood, beagle on hare—
dilating eagerly for what they most dis. Go figure.

History tends to make history seem inevitable. But
history could always turn out different. It’s remiss. Go figure.

If your dad never met your mom, or your mom didn’t like
the way your dad smelled, you’d not be reading this. Go figure.

Do you think they sat around, barbecuing plump muskrats
at dusk, their eyes wet with wah-wah reminisce? Go figure.

Or did they hunker down and deconstruct ye olde concept
of home, schooners plunging into the abyss? Go figure.

Dead reckoning on prairie seas, seeking the ravenous
maw of wilderness, offering up a French kiss. Go. Figure.

But whom do the uncertain trail? Ain’t it plain clear? They trail
the certain, people filled with narrative bliss. Go figure.