It wasn’t the smallpox blankets, but forgetting we gave them. How snakes wrapped our arms like vines & our hands functioned as gavels. That deep sinking feeling: us running over our convictions, the brilliant pallor of lotus leaves.

I’ll tell you a secret. I died in a pothole. The water filled beyond its lip, a hideous love stretched the land. It was a mistake, the way we whinnied in our sex. Worthless pioneers, dark creek of worthless pioneers…

Angels live in our nerve endings, but always, we treat them as Martians. Where is my ray gun? Where is my skull? What knowing doesn’t alleviate, I kick off like seaweed. Life without a skull is a gray cloud of meat.