Indian Boys

One little
two little
three little
four little
five little
six little
seven little
eight little
nine little
ten little.

Under the moon,
that perfect ruby sky fruit,
Indian boys pace
or carve through the nightness
in rusted cars,
their thick lips
wetted, glistening
with the breath of sick roses
and bad wine,

while one sad feather swings
upside down
from the rearview mirror,
brushing
Catholic dust from
the head of a cracked
and yellow
dashboard Madonna.