Where to Next

The lizards move the ground
taking shadows with them
as prairie birds prune the sagebrush
and the sun does what it wants.

I’d think it all perfect if not for
a store-bought drone ripping it all open
with its kazoo ballad in a stale hover.

From up there it turns us all into ants;
my van into a grain of obsidian
that I will carry down a rhymed road
to stack behind an unmarked grave
of something wild and unnamed.

Published in Blood Moon Poetry, Issue 3, Summer 2021.

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