The Bread We Eat in Dreams

and there’s seeds there like blood already freezing

ready to stand tall at high midnight

ready to fire so fucking loyal, so sweet,

like every girl who ever said no

turning around at once and opening their arms.

And your honor’s out on the table, all cards hid.

And by your honor I mean my honor,

and by my honor I mean everything in me, always, forever,

everything in a body that knows

what to do with six ruby bullets

and a horse the color of two in the morning.

That knows when the West tastes like death and an old paperback

you saddle your shit and ride East,

when you’re done with it all you don’t put down roots

and Drunk Bob says: come on, son, you’ve got that book to write

and I know a desk in the dark with your name on it.

And Witty old girl she sighs: you know what you have to do.

Seeds fire and bullets grow and I’m the only one who’s ever loved you.

That horse can go hang.

And I say: maybe I’ll get an MFA

and be King of the Underworld

in some sleepy Massachusetts town.

And all the while my honor’s tossed into the pot

and by my honor I mean your honor

or else what’s this all about? Drunk Bob

never did know where this thing was going

but I guess the meat of it is how Bob is strong and I am strong

and Witty is a barrel of futures, and we are all of us

unstopping, unending, unbeginning:

we keep moving. You gotta keep moving.