we cross the mako sica in the midday's heat and we
cross suspension bridges, wander through the hoodoos, climb up
to the top of the highest hill,
and carve our initials
into the feeble wooden beams that hold up the mine's grey walls.

it was ten minutes later that we'd crossed eleven bridges - i
stared at your brown arms with my green eyes as we pulled into the
last chance saloon, where you cook your own steak out on the porch
while the piano player drinks lager from a mason jar.

his fingers are soft and let the notes go like he has
fallen out of love with each one - they don't take it well, they
fall out of the air like birds having heart attacks mid-flight.

our fingers are black and swollen from squeezing diamonds out of
coal and we'll wash them in the mississippi's muddy waters
soon, while we sing notes that land somewhere between the sun and moon.

Moi, j'avais jamais rien dit. Rien

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