I live in flux
searching for a bucket to put my head in
or a break beat to end the monotony
of the radio’s dreaming of you.

Sunday is childless,
the last of the honest cowboys,
cleaning his gun
and brushing the dust from his boots.

You won’t find angels here
to wrestle, the water will not run
cool over your bones, the ocean will not cradle you.

I’m glad I miss most of it, in my corner
taking advice from the man holding a bucket I can only spit in,
a beaten woman who sings the blues.

The bells will call me out
for a brief moment before returning me,
like a steer on the dusty trail coerced
into slaughter come morning.

How it’s been laid can be heard
in the static between breaths, the cold steel
pushing me like a rider, a blue runner
outside the chapel’s door.