Even to the Sheets I Appear White

even to the sheets I appear white
when have you ever appeared any more than pale
the high road the train the mule the way to get home
the high road leads to empty death but when is death ever full
we attacked unsuccessfully the herds of the south
when you read this missive I will shoot you dead

in the wake of night plains shook like bed sheets
the wet path shot with mud barely visible
we want to see you here again
seeing where the rain falls through the trees
my hands pushing through rock eating up minerals
the mud clinging to my leg the path thick with blood

hope for white sheets and death
when will we appear

some hands encountered obstructive memories
the empty beyond the drive train mule
stammering mules driving toward death in an empty road
the night plains were disturbed throughout the attack
the mud clung to my face obliterating my field of vision
scrape some of the burning bush off your chest

the grieving judge will put his mouth to your ear
you will read this on your own tombstone