Another day of thunder
thunder;
wonderful.
Wooden slats of
broken sofas choke,
strained fingers stretch.
There’s creaking in the eaves,
in the wind and the leaves. And
and
eyes full of hope,
sentences of belief,
we, arm in arm
by the skin of our knuckles
grinding our teeth in
a fist fight fairy tale.
Still though
there’s
gringo sing songs in the evening,
another egg breakfast,
dancing in the moonlight.
We don’t even need
to speak about our dreams.
There’s gold in these hills.
