twenty/fith on thirtee


Gods are handing in

Their stab wounds


My what a beautiful

Conquistador you make

Your head


Among the wheel pile and pull

A farm hands the background

Its menace


We dance with whatever

Shadow downs enough east


That the sun can calm and clamp shut / On

it retreats back to its hitching post


When the mail comes it is as blue

As your inked finger prints

The idea of prison in them lines


& our hides gone

crisp as the potatoes

That brought us here


To plant a native seed

All you need is a hole

And the dirt


What’s left of this time

Is tile

And tied red round the mouth 


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