A bustling of noses and wind blown hair
gloating over goats which bleed
calculable blood.
One pence, two pence, three
and there’s a crowd surrounding
a tunic at the top of the stairs.

Oil was discovered, covered
by a man in a tunic
sharing meticulous dreams, dreaming
in the gear-grind way of life. Hoarding
lubricant beneath stands and markets,
and marketing water.

Turn to Piegans, Bloods, and Blackfeet proper,
prop her against the boards
and rest the nail against her temple,
temple where a man in tunic
flipped markets like gear-grinds
unearthing oil in fire
exploding jelly purple dye,
dying is the goat upon
the stage

on page one hundred and three sun-blisters burst on screaming merchants