The air with its heavy fog of dirt
Trees with billowing trash-bag blossoms
They make me sleep, and sleep
No hurry to awake.
Silence, and then more of it.
I wander aimlessly on streets that turn back on themselves
Names like Alameda, and Amador
The As have it, I think. The better to pair with rolling Rs.
The dry river runs in its memories, while the bed cracks
A man fishes from a burning lake, his pole broken and mislaid
Black things twisting beneath the surface, hoping to be caught.
They are the only things with hope.
Always the wind, forcing you to eat the sand
Here I am, and you are nothing.
Roads on Her Face 