Have you seen the one where the handsome white man (shiny brass buttons, blue wool coat with 
no holes) comes to the prairie and tames a wild wolf, a girl gone feral? The sun is always
shining; skies press down blue.  How his white teeth glint as he turns the arm of the coffee 
grinder for his new native acquaintances (not the face-painted, weapon yielding Pawnee), a 
gentler tribe who has put aside his mission (the white pickled egg of a lie he has swallowed as to 
why he is there) to befriend him.  If you listen closely, you can feel the sound of 10,000 wagons 
rolling toward them.  Over that knoll, where the camera never pans, eight skinned buffalo rot in 
the hot sun.  

Under a five month beard
the truth quivers.