The boots were on the couch and had manure on their heels and tips. The cowgirl with vermilion udders and ears that tasted of cream pulled on her jeans. The saddle is not sore and the crotch with its directionless brain is pounded by hammers. Less like flowers than grease fittings women win us to a life of holes, their negative space. I don't know you and won't. You look at my hairline while I work, conscious of history, in a bottomless lake. Thighs that are indecently strong and have won the West, I'll go back home where women are pliant as marshmallows. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PROCLAMATION by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER WHITE FOR MOURNING by AL-FATA AL-KAFIF SONG OF THE SERPENT-CHARMERS by EDWIN ARNOLD THE SECOND BROTHER; ACT 1, SCENE 1 by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 101. AGE: 2 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT THIRD REUNION POEM by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE HO FOR NOA NOA by BERTON BRALEY TAKE IT FROM FATHER by BERTON BRALEY ON STIRLING; SEEING THE ROYAL PALACE IN RUIN by ROBERT BURNS |