We're coughing on a century of dust
while men in white buildings slip fingers between
their government neckties and their sweaty throats.
In this quilt of crops and dead land, bone-white
windmills linger and VLA dishes
nurse stiff necks. All that refrigerated air
yanks our power lines, while a hunched Dwight Frye
enjoins the city to live. Our scientists
keep scanning a sky chock-full of UFOs
and zero answers. More little green men
fall on Roswell per annum than the barometer
would suggest, but we've had drought for so damned long.
It's just kachinas tantrums. For the sky-people,
precipitation means the departure of rain.
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