Sunday, March 31, 2013

Ancient Camels in the Arctic

This train wreck of a railroad town
Where the narrow, false-front PO
Still fronts a row of mailboxes
And a handful of single-wides
In the desert looks deserted,
But it may not be entirely,
Since it's not entirely quiet,
And since an empty whiskey jug
Sits in the middle of Main Street
With a painter's face mask attached
As some weird huffing contraption.
Someone is still trying to die here.
Someone still comes to get the mail.

Down the torn-up road, the river
Wanders past gravel pits, Fish Ford,
And various barbed-wire cow paths.
Tie-dyed rock formations erode
Random bits of dinosaur bone.
You want to know this why? Because
As the Arctic was dense forest
Once, and this once was wet jungle,
As the railroad once cut edges
Through percentage-grade barrenness
To re-people stones with cow towns,
So too, whatever's ever left
Will be left bereft of context,
Including these, including this.

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