On a brilliant Sunday morning drive,
bound by nothing more than absence
and wandering with empty scarlet eye sockets
I took my cane out and began beating that beast again
the cattle trough is drained, the creek bed dry,
ghosts swarm the skeletal trees
everyone is not like you, any more
She sleeps like a widow, observes my mother,
tomorrow I will feed you the stones from my eyes,
it will be the first landing of a UFO,
triangles weave through the dunes