A dying quirt of a cowboy leans
against
The bookstack, laid at skin taut
and paging
The Captain. We whip together to
the dead
Wails in trees that have sinned
and where
Do I feel her nails, her formless
prayers told in tongs and tongues I don’t understand or can stand?
The eventual cabin of her loose
and store brand underthings frill-less and frivolous
Awaits. The noise grates me
against
The attic beam. I climb the
moonlight
To a where a magnesium strip of
Fur congeals against the
headstones
Of the dead.
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