She follows, she follows...
A Poem by Corset


It's Christmas again
 we try to try
and we confess to
a kind of madness

we gather
the smell of your skin
dangling like lost stars
while millions mass
entitled to our sick days

Tree top swing
eyelids sweating in white pulse
'cause you do not understand
intimacy until you have
shaved your wife in the
wilderness of cowboys
and the dust settled dawn

hoof and mane remain the same
conversation

I try to remember the sound
of your laughter,
I can only recall mine,
it is meant to be
only a few moments ago
Christmas Eve like a thirsty
rabbit went into his hole
drank him deep asleep
into the floor

our working class demons
can't look at each other
without a pick axe and
all I can think is

"I hope you got tailgate"
and she follows, and she follows
the one,
that my brothers and sisters
call "the missing" dream.