The thing is, the town grew restless
living deep within the dustbowl,
so they placed mountains behind the hills
gave the general store a roof,
then each bar a row of stools
which will never sit empty.
We sewed eyes beside our buttons
as eager as our own
and asked eyes to reveal
the depth of our despair.
And because the present blurred our future
dusty hands met moonlit faces,
triggers received a finger;
their bodies sleek, shining handles.
Even what lay hidden from our vision
was radiated from their fires;
we made memories into bones,
photographs screaming out,
wet tongues lashing,
so we could walk into sanctuary.