Chirpings in the Foothills

The oxide-wind carried a buzzing
intoxicated serenade, windows mowed the trees.
I could never remember
teething steadily nibbling through forests
till age had brought me to technology.

Flag poles, dumpsters. And remembrance of vertical cave-walls
where sage-brush exchanged noon’s
carpool; they drew me into droned-houses.
And mammoth towers climbing asphalt spines
yielding from sun-slit wrinkles upon them.

How much I would have doubted, gashed-gorged,
all the quiet chirpings in the foothills
where machines learn surgery and language.
The puddle I submerged in once and quickly evaporated—
I remember now its high-pitched twisted lamppost willow lips.

And finally, in that memory all things merge;
after the city that resistantly withered on
with scalding plasma-ruins leaking from smoldering lard-pool-
monsoons, slither across the country
golf mountainous mansion gates…there, beyond the newspaper

I heard gusts flake aluminum oxide drip sunset
iron melting velvet-willows’ disrepair burst,
no more sound to hold steady a second more.


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