hills dog-fetched
salt filter drops like hard-boiled steam
smelled like black soil ought to
beat their little peaked ever green felt drums
high on the wind
the wind of the rock fences
dripping, plop, plopped
plotted, plotted the valleys
I saw from the fuzz down some fence-row
looked like the cheap scratched purple ashtrays
in motels ought to
dipped their blow
flick of a momentary corner
the corner of the long, thin
sunken gaze half there of chemical air
clapped scared for the animals that
have distance completely at bay
to survive that luscious silver-tipped trip
to the top maybe water-bowled floppy-eared
junk-trunks and sticker-clocks running in reverse, forward
floated, flowed, flowerish stem pistols along your
one-night horizon, felt like peaceful death slipped
and missed in the garden, when you wore cotton
caps with stingy threads, neat threads, haircut threads
and made me turn to sniff some greasy tonic
but only get sweat and tire-air wet instead
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