Snug Guns One took the place of the horse. Split ropes, dun hearse, he dragged the crippled wagon over a hillock of bees. The rest of us inside—I, up front— rode and cocked our guns against an army of muscle and hum. Our crepe paper faces awake. This is the pine needle I shoved deep in hand to remind me of my hand. Teach me how to swathe myself— a private binding— against the arrival of hooves. *Published in Court Green