Driving into the country
along the straight track
of a manmade road.
Ahead, a canyon billows
dust-smoke, words
tremble in the lobe,
an old melody
whirs deep in the cortex.
Light rises—or an illusion of it.
Ahead, a field
of cacti wavers—
lingers.
Rusting water silos
with perched crows.
Serpents snaking
somewhere below.
& the carcass of a tanker
emotionlessly reflects
the mountains. Yes,
shade, but where
the underlying body?
& where is that fresh water
we saved for this evening?
