we lay each other down in the burr and sage
                                                bottles jangle us awake
                        cirrhosis moon for eye

memories cough our young fists up
                                                trying to set ourselves on fire
                        dressing ourselves in black smoke

just as our cousins did one by one after the other
                        rising pure blue in June                                  

                                   let drunktown rake up
                                               the letters in their names
lost to bone
           let horses graze where remains are found

and you kiss me to shut me up
                                    my skin bruise dark in the deep                                             

come morning the leaves will replace themselves with meadowlarks
                                                names shiver in the bottle jangle
                                    still cockshut in larkspur

you will see your cousin and uncle lying next to you

                                                every time I blink
                        we become ghosts bottle-dark and white-eyed

among the grasses
            horses probably still there