The Untitled Series (No. 3)

Tobacco sprouts are pushing through the sideline dust,

The winter of burning has started her finale.

The sun has started bringing the rains on her hips, large metal pails, rusted from tired mornings and garden work.

The smell of green is back, but you can feel the wasteland looming.

Lazy sunbeams poke through, in the mornings.

Those mornings you tell me I’m beautiful, but I’m just dusted with sepia, and sand left in your sleepy eyes.

The cows have laid down in their pastures, green pastures without their shepherd.

The highway farms are lost to time, and highway faith lost to the moons.

The rains come heavy, they come pooling with sweat on the windshield.

It’s been a few years, but I’m still crouched in the ditches, smoking last years tobacco, and you’re still standing tall in moonlight.

Mosquitoes are bumping on the door again, but after you, that door stays shut. I move through windows, gusting winds, and cyclical thoughts. Nothing else comes through the weather stripped door frames anymore, because nothing good is wanting to.