Tarantula Hands

barbed
deep and dry
patterns
black shapes
in webs
in layers
like snake skin
like spiders

to be held
up to the sun
for warmth
and a glimpse
through
spindled fingers
of something
next to Heaven

bound in flesh
with a scalded skull
a vagabond’s
drunken stumble
upwards
towards the mountains

in the distance
grizzly teeth
the familiar ruin
of flesh torn by
broken dreams
whirled in the
mountain’s breath
frozen solid
holding the white man’s rifle

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Filed under American West, outlaw poetry, poetry

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