10 February 2009


You said you shot the film in Sweetwater. I wonder if you held her in a trough. People do that. People make hotness lick off their skin like that, in the desert, stealing horses. Making room for each other in a trough. And if the sun was setting, I bet the heat was breaking. And if you shot the film in Sweetwater, I bet there as dust. There was dust up to eyelids. All the way to the ears. You laughed. In the trough. Washed sins. Like a baptism. But love isn’t kind enough, or holy. So the dirt gets in. So it should. So you laughed between one another. The sun was setting, breaking the heat. Stealing horses, you and her. Making something between two, kicking dust.

In Sweetwater, hell slides its snakes. Hope gets in between love, which isn’t kind enough to wash sins. But you laugh. You knew it wasn’t kind, but the baptism goes on. Like the film, I suppose. Just once. But it was a dream. It ran away, stole the horses. The sun was setting, but you said it was kind. Like hotness on the skin. The dust gets in. Gets in between you two. Like hell. People do that. People wash in troughs. Love isn’t holy. So they should.

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