High over the Chinati Peak,
the clouds of Texas rolled –
with charcoal-grey, concealed the day,
and bent the shrubs to fold.

The Narragansett Pacer stomped
with feet of tempered steel,
dispersing rocks, his proud white socks
now stained with muddy teal.

Upon the saddle of the horse,
a man squinted one eye
into a telescope; a rope
hung nimbly from his thigh.

The screams cut through the sky like ice,
chilling from skin to core.
“I need a prince to save me,
from this hell which I endure!”

And so the prince held tight his jewels,
for fear they might fall off,
then galloped straight, no time to wait:
he’d sooner get his quaff.

The lake sprawled out like hedera:
mirror, or watchful eye.
Looming beside, a whole mile wide,
a tower pricked the sky.

“Please help me, sir!” There came the wails,
a seventh time, or eighth.
You’ll help me out, please, have no doubt,
I can’t afford to wait!”

He sunk his nails into the moss,
and scraped the wall beneath:
of white bricks, hemmed with veins of gem,
like ruby-gilded teeth.

The higher up, the more he saw
of emerald, gold, and pearl –
their scents began to fill this man
with nectar dreams, unfurled.

Small hands, perfumed with mignonette,
reached through the window frame.
They hauled him in, nurtured his grin
of pride, his challenge tamed.

The woman stroked his glowing jewels;
he coughed, straightened his crown,
tried an embrace, in which his face
was pinned awkwardly down.

She sighed, and lifted up his chin,
kissing his quivering lips –
that sticky taste of honeyed paste,
which on the senses grips.

He closed his eyes and savored it,
how sweetly it slipped in;
he struggled, then, to open them,
sleep spreading from within.

Her small hands gave a tender push;
he tripped, and swiftly fell
into a pit, full up with grit
and small bones, all picked well.

He now lay thirty feet below,
whimpering like a dog.
She left, of course, to get brown sauce,
as he succumbed to fog.