From Roswell to Albuquerque
I counted 53 roadside rabbits
in one hour.
They stared at the moon
from the outside of the highway
craning their necks towards the sky.
Light lit their dust
as they inched away from the cars
but their eyes did not leave the night.
Hunching behind cacti they counted constellations
like lamps torn away from the sun.
They did not suffer the street fright
nor hear the road kill requiems
lulling colonies to comfort
in crossing over.
In Baytown, Texas
there’s a dirt devilin’
at the state line
an oozing layer
of burnt up turpentine.
from an oil town night light,
a flicker of a refinery candle,
spilled into the sky
There are dead animals in Houston
that are not the black spot mirages
we see in the distance
but crushed bone of something once been.
They could not be seen
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