oh calgary, you sure are lovely
knees crack
and hands rub at the back of your neck
as a plastic bag whines on the seat
from the whistle of the car window
rolled to a convenient slit,

the ghost towns are made of salt
and dust and the endangered
cavalries of sword and sandal
meander in the morning shine
of tall grass and wild swine,

we are eating the rope,
knotted and veined in weather
and come-hither sage, the brush
of heat against the back of the leg,
teeth taste of yesterday and yoke,

the dimness of this veil is enough
to blot me out of the hazed polaroid's
kept like violet secrets in the back
of the trunk as we approach the city,

new, dirty, and speckled in car fumes.