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Soil Horizons

On the freeway’s shoulder, I keep a tightrope.
The officer says, Put your hands behind your back.
A gravestone. Barbed-wire. Trees grow through
anything. Cells divide & flow. Swallow
the chainsaws. The brain is just neurons. An LLC
in Oregon to turn corpses to mulch. Turn flesh
into something more useful than ash.
There’s a brain in my stomach. Pain slower
than touch. Wait quiet. Give me your belt. The sky
falls & it doesn’t hurt. If the hatchet behind
glass breaks the rules in the holding cell
I’m without a body. A woman’s husband
killed her in my hometown. They tried a murder
for the first time. Without a body. He put her
remains through a woodchipper. When I wake
there becomes another crag for the river
to soften. Head high. Down the drain. To bone.
Our breathalyzer is broken. You need to pee in this cup.
Native aches. Delayed plants. The current gets
what the current wants. A steak knife. Ships
sink ten miles away. I was born in an SUV
in a McDonald’s drive-thru. I wish instead
to taste forests & ponds become strip malls
as I cruise on the highway’s breeze. To let diesel
& dust succumb to my worship. Whatever ruin
that might mean. The river responds, you’re trying
the wrong amount. Says, you must grieve elsewhere
but in dreams. You have the right to remain silent. I wouldn’t
know what else to say. Too tired. Too caring to be
prepared. In the most beautiful way. I am dirt.
I mean. It’s getting hotter & wetter & isn’t going to stop.



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