She goes in an afternoon sun. It’s hot,

hot like you’ve never seen it; southwest

sun meets continental fury & still the

bed is cold. So she is parts of a person,

fractured through the places she knew

you; shoulder to wheel, hand on thigh,

less than you have ever been. How you

tasted trouble & you never changed your

mind. How she was born early & you

were born ready & the two of you never

bore much of anything. Nobody knows,

she used to remind you; nobody wants

to hear it. So remember the horses &

the people who brought them to town.

How the cities spat you out. The way she

falls out of love. Tuck it all in your back

pocket like a kerchief. It’s American to

love like this, to shield your heart with

metal & make somebody pull the trigger.

But you’re not the sheriff & she’s not the

outlaw & I was never much of a cowboy

at all. So I ride into the sunset & I leave

the smoke behind. I strip myself clean &

I tell myself truths & I find life over the

horizon. 

I hope you can, too.