The ravening errant hair
of the clothes horse made tough
in dire nature, by the Lear Jet,
by the mesas in stormless
weather, demonstrates
the romance of the basics:
"goatskin blouson with a fox
collar."  We forget.
Cut to messes in the pass,
my thirsty boots look good in this
situation, thirsty and miserable,
dragging myself into a fort
named for a smallness of spirit,
too cowboy chic in my scorpion
belt buckle.  Our desserts 
left darkling, shivers blast
the fine fur at my collar—
a little wrankling thinness
into a wild of shadows pressing.