Marc Vincenz

Oil Sheen

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?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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