His tumbleweeds and dust remain defunct:
Detached from rain, and gritty. On a bench
Above a warped veranda, two cubes plunked
In a tumbler, his sippin' whiskey drench-
-ing endless summers; seems he's eyeballs deep
In pigeons, one sweet prince for high noon killin',
Just like that. Alas, vaquero, your sleep
Is busted with each clap of buckshot, chillin'
Quintessences and simulacrums side
By side -- wax displays of cowboy nights are
Prone to melting. The pistolier confides
In ice: I know you flapped your arms, so far
Bound up and cussed, but you're no desperado,
Patron, nor worse than those in El Dorado.
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