All the history I know
Is the way the dust blows
Sanding the surface to shine.
A west so wild the night howled
At its own shadow and slept
Belt-buckle out to witness Sirius.
The metal on the tip of his boots
An oasis of light, with chinking stroll
He stole the summer and planted
His tumble-weed seeds in Mojave, with love.
Pan wanderer, look away, from this city
Lawned in suburbia. I remember the desert.
I remember the heat. The heartbeat
Of the sun on the valley
when we wrote in ropes the west wild.