ark nemesis

Came out of the sand,
wind blowing hot
ruffling his hat brim

No wings.
They had wings, we thought,
but the Good Book
never said anything about that.

Just a long chain
A long chain,
A chain as long as we've been here
crawling across His skin
until today.

A long chain,
holding a big box
tight
on his back,
pine,
fine grain,
if you've a mind
for detail.

Along his chest,
leather.
He pulled it,
Sam Colt
in each claw,
and he dared the horizon
Draw,
you Sons of
Sons of
Bitches,

And as we started,
we ended,
rats, crawling over the dirt
scrambling
for water
for sun
for a dark hole away from
the storm
we'd made.

One
by one
by one he raised his hands
and squeezed
and turned that wheel
amidst the gun
never stopping,
never running dry
and the box on his back
held there by the chain,
every link our lives,
put there since the start,
every link we died
until the box was full.

And then one day,
one drunk in a dark room
encased by clay
wrote it down as a flood
of water
when two by two every beast of the world
marched aboard
to be saved.
And then...

Have an olive, sir? They're tasty.