I handed you one silver dollar and you pointed in the direction of the sacred mountain. All the next day we travelled sideways. We sailed through an ocean of dead birds and ash. I gave you two more dollars, and you said Alright, and pressed your lips to the knives buried like wings in my shoulder. At noon the trees were bent in prayer. So we joined them. And I handed you three more dollars to clean up the bloody mess we left behind. That night a cloud opened like a cellar door upside down in the nighttime. We arrived at the stone that never sees daylight. Four dollars later, and you looked so tired. Gripping that sacred mountain in your good hand. The peak you used to pry open my throat.