Monday, October 24, 2005

from Archer Road

In ditches, the discarded tires
resemble murders. Or daughters.

Slender pickets of crosses
lingering at their margins.

There’s a racket in the things
left behind. Each name a handbag

or a hairpin. The forked heat
of backseats. My limbs are

riddled with sisters lurching
along interstates. Their low

lights and windshield gloom.
How they all lie down like this.

Lie down like this.Lie down like this.

1 comment:

Christine said...