its saint patrick's day. my half brother who i hardly know will leave me a drunken voicemail about how we are irish. and i will not return his call because i'm an american.
you were born with the bones of a horse. your cannon bone is my canon. your coffin bone is my coffin.
you bedded down in my abdomen flat cast for years you went one eyed.
when i ride you, you can still see virtually everything you once saw. but you cannot see me riding above you. you can still see a snake coiled in shale but you cannot see me riding above you and you never look up.