Outlaws

The fever brought your eyes

closer to mine as we lay there,

our horses dying, then you reached

for my hand and I felt

your foot slide in next to mine.

Stirrups swinging, we galloped off

into the pale sunset of hospital corridors,

in the whiteness of pillows still ringing

with electrodes, our temples greased

and still smoking like the barrels of guns.

We decided to shoot the horses,

leaving them where they lay and walked

down Main Street to the Day Room;

filling the night sky full of holes,

fast-drawing against the bandanaed dark.