Mounds of sugar beets under
halogen, marooned in pressure
waves like fossil dinosaur turds.
Lurid thunder eggs. And
always the two Lebanese
brothers who walk and argue.
A six-year-old boy drowned in an
irrigation ditch. His father a tethered
dirigible in white Adidas.
Church is headstones in hill rows
wearing in an unrelenting east
wind. Pacific as cheatgrass
It’s not personal when someone leaves, though
they try to make it so—rumbling like a John
Deere tractor with a bored aneurysm.
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