The Rock Mountains hung high upon the noon time
the last time we kissed,
in a dream, ten years ago,
after some forgotten argument,
cursed by a metallic taste in the roof of my mouth.
 
You went away,
wearing his jeans,
exchanging them for the deepest thoughts of fear
and melancholy,
 
I, would not,
send the telegram to the devil
you asked me,
 
without money, and a counterfeit child,
the stardom,
withheld the begging mouth.
 


Copyright,
William "Wild Bill" Taylor
September, 1999