twenty/fith on thirtee

Image

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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