It Matters Not by Ron Wallace

I come unarmored,
my eyes making love to Oklahoma stars
that somehow
have slipped into the Texas sky.

Crossing the Red
beneath an early morning moon
I chase
a gypsy shadow.

It matters not
to that moon nor the ornamental stars
around it
why I must ride to Texas.

But she wears my name
tattooed in blue above her beating heart
and draws me
like the damned into the flames.

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