terrible shepherd

i know i would end up on my phone
or something & a hawk would come
& steal my sheep for his own.
he would start a sweater business 
& i would have to see ads for
"perfect authentic wool sweaters."
the worst kind of jealousy 
comes from when the loss is your fault.
i look for a way out. hate the hawk.
hate my own eyes for wandering. 
flockless, i would start to gather ghosts.
shear them too. they would sigh 
to lose the weight of their lifetimes. 
i would try to knit catacombs 
or at least a bunk bed from all that matter. 
the mountain shrugging around us, 
the shoulders of an old man. 
at night i would sleep like a dog. curled up
in a nest of ghosts. i would cry for the sheep.
see them in my dreams. their hooves.
their soft voices. i would get up 
with the first tongue of the sun & go
searching for them. has anyone ever
come to save you? it is sometimes
an amazing feeling. to be remembered.
to be fought for. the sheep will be
forgiving creatures. they will not lie to me.
they will admit i am a terrible shepherd
but also that they love me. that we can walk
back down the dandelion crest 
& eat our skeleton's weight in gold. 
all my sheep walking with me, cut to the bone.
their bodies like windchimes. 
clouds descending on the earth
to grease us in fog. one big sheep.
what is left when it lifts, i do not know.