Balmorhea from Even Clothed by Marmalakes

I awoke in Balmorhea
To the echo-shouts of shotguns
In the distant desert haze
Every bird pretends it’s not one

Two companions bearing blood
Not the same but it may as well be
The quiet here may be enough
To make up for the shells now empty

Blown and covered in dust
These stones are not to be trusted
But they won’t bear blame if we bust
Unraveling
At our sore feet
Are the Barilla Hills

I fell asleep in Balmorhea
To a bellow-less breeze
A foul death morning has been replaced
By the winging in of eve

In the stillness that is here
There is a different kind of gun
The shots of silence almost pierce
And every word pretends it’s not one
Unraveling
At blistered feet
Are the Barilla Hills

• Rock
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