The boarders of not-West expect to see
the courthouse frontage parallelling death
a little less familiar than planned.
For this, they won a prize: the cloths where urns
align their paint to sun-cracked desert hide,
plus terminal alluvium the lead
hit. Do not turn around. There is no choosing.
In Texas, every table's rounder. Hell,
under the chrome, reflecting mutant men,
the age-old story of boy meets girl--boy
of cells--we doubt, but not enough to stop.
They say the body recreates itself.
Jesus, my eyes are tired: the highway dashes,
DAs, caffeine-sustained POs attesting.
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