with a goat in the trunk, it’s ankles bound with love
who is to say what we can and cannot do
halfway between one mountain and the next hairstyle
there’s a life’s work fermenting sweetly
drying in the sun
hanging foolishly by borrowed ankles
empty mouth, inches from dusty ground
why line up at all
there’s nothing left to breath
but fiction
wearing its everyday clothes
patched and fading
(When it was done, we put the insides back,
wrapped in its own fur for safekeeping.)