the sunset forgets to drip
when the blue birds sings in the wall
the pistol butt is dreaming of its holster
as lady bugs the red hands of school boys
it was all a trick like my plainworn ring
the darkness touching my back
as I cut the beef down from the porch
under the mausoleum of a dead man’s hands
groomed to fit like a rugged palm
the roads that are less traveled
where the birds look like men shot out of their saddles
men on the make, sanguine or sober
holding up the one picture left to dust
the pistol cocks but its sunset did not light on you
there is a shadow in the squalor that is not blood related
to the butterflies turning blue in the myrtle shade
staying alive meant putting down the law you wrought
when the stars shine with their safety’s off
the moon holds back the trigger with her teeth