| 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 |