Rippling at his feet, running due West,
it ends at sky's edge: a road of molten gold.
Violet-gowned Dusk drags her hem
over coals glowing wordless. Old
vellum and blackberry ink. Horse trail stink.
Piss in the sand. Rocks are the gods
El Vaquero now propitiates. To wind, linked
by chapped lips -- dry kisses deserts broad
and crawling with fresh pagan souls for Christ.
They climb mounds and trees like fire ants.
Their women are too free. The Padre might
pray, invoke the rod, or forbid dance.
Little red-skinned apple, sweet girl, twists
her wood-hard wrist. White bells sway in mist.
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