the whole continent
bagged and burning
nostrils flared in danger
out back, exhaust pipe
lit by a low orange sun,
the boys lean on their pick-ups
and talk about girls
jobs across the mountains,
across those creatures made
numerical by distance, elevation,
the logistics of pipeline placement
the motorhand maintains the mud
pumps and seizes
the moment to smoke
for miles the plume
turns eyes: a show, a residue
an imprint dug up later
to tell us where we’ve been
"Poetry recall literally affects dozens"
1 comment:
i only sniffed gas on purpose twice. for a good, quick dream it is an epic headache. however, the day-to-day molecular plume of the atmos, all just makes my mind sleepy i find. yet somehow, at the tank it smells kinda good.
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