You roll in like a vaquero to the Wild West:
water galloping the earth & black clouds

rippling: the foaming flank of a stallion.
Tip your hat & get to business: charge

the air with cactus-prickle shivers, slip
your Zeus fingers from holsters and lightning-

rod them to the sky. Rumble your spurs
& order me a sarsaparilla—lid-crack

carefully; an effervescent gale will brew.
Breathe slow at first: electric hum through bone-

white grass: bows as you ghost by—
clear your throat, lasso tight my attention

with guttural echoes pressed heavy on
my chest. Then rip open

the constellations with gunshot blows,
explode wide saloon doors & take

no prisoners. Oil-lacquer streets
& ride off blazing: leave the women

but take me, saddle-swing me high
in the catatonic static of a ghost town.

You’ll vanish like you came: I know
what they say about red skies

in morning. But I’m never awake
to watch you silhouette away.