#142

Inside a hubcap roadside,
bolts, knuckles, the joint
of a skeletal thumb. The cactus
meditates on what it's seen.

The faded skill of a Cadillac,
its red paint rust,
the insides long burnt out--
dead tortoise for the vultures.

The sun just above the land,
like the glowing, knowing head
of John the Baptist come to tell
us get out or y'all be forced out,

and we're nowhere to be found--

I am the thistle clinging to
the cactus, I am the tumbleweed
shuffling out of view, I am
the long-sleeping hare, hidden beneath
the car's memory.