SINCE WE'RE STILL FRIENDS, LET'S PLAY A GAME
where i crawl a thousand miles by some cloudy gravel road
bugs and snakes on my hands and knees and the yellow grass half on fire
too flat, too endless to hide me—
and because old yeller got the muzzle to the head all over a bite,
you fire ten rounds that vanish into the great prairie nothing
but the shots that cracked like thunder stay
on the wind and the only place you hit me out of ten shots is where
my bra would curve over my shoulderblades;
wind blows me way to you like all other misfortune in the world
and nobody wins the game, nobody loses, we just get down by the road
and count each other’s bones, two-o-six times two plus
thirty-two teeth each to clean off four-twelve bones.