The Fieldstone Review

Just Another Story About Billy the Kid

Through the ornate ceiling he shoots some bullets.
The sky is very yellow; sun indigo.
Puts his gun in his belt, whirls his peculiar hat
through the air.

Uncoiling as they go, garter snakes shed their luminous skins
and one by one depart their communal den.

Night flies past. He puts his face
perpendicular to this century and weeps.

A small explosion occurs behind a black door, then another.
When he sleeps he dreams of his former wives naked
in the dark, leaping from wildflower to wildflower.

He keeps lightning in a bottle, is stoked before evening.
Like a magnet he gathers action
and beautiful red-haired girls, their fizzed hair.