I can sense the vanguard of your breath
colliding along the rarely prepared front lines
parading across the nape of my neck.

Hovering above the black moon tattoo I got
when my eyes were filled with factory smoke
from times a grandfather only knows
and my mind had been chaotically mute for centuries.

Lovers in the young West
stalked by dust bowl witnesses
and men who have their own idea
of the Law.

Scatter ourselves upon the prairies
dandelion perfume among the wind
and pray our mothers never know.