North-Western

Riding my horse into the white sun,
I escape the formidable fury
of my still-fresh mistakes.
I tried to game the players,
cheat the clean-shirt sheriff,
play the same stucco'd notes
as every paint-slapped piper
that's ever peered over the drop.

I would bust my head a hundred
times open to spill its goods,
it would be a lifetime of good
done in a tight-breathed second.
The waves are hungry.
The foam floats to witness
me turning away,
riding my horse into the white sun.