Over the mountains, the patronising fields
apathetic stars twinkled at her curves
winked at intervals of lies, how often they were
like the clefs of his song, the ignition in her eyes.

Or was it visceral emotions, darken in the noon
scaring the face, like the lone summer’s moon?
the crackling of the cedar was only the transmission
between prayers and stutters, the radio
tastes of bitter words, but she hoped it wasn’t sulfur.

Barrels weighed heavy, but the ring glimmered with stars
the clover swaddling upon her palms.
When the barrel was too heavy, and the pink of her hand broke
She gasped for wisps, he was already intoxicated in stomping rains.

Rains of chapped lips, vaseline to heal,
cries in a foreign language, only a broken finger could speak.