Milk Tower At Pixley
Plank-built tap
barrel-round like Granny’s washtub
this
communal breast
once inspired
market
veal of doodingus days,
speculators in cravats
swearing
passion
is the oasis
blueprints will save us
manifest destiny
drives
shadows.
Hinged
as
we are to the unseen
sing the fences
of a wooden need
bibles
that won’t fade
red
rail sutures, fables
in road dust fans.
Ashen
monks
these
almond tress
shade
a ranch house on wheels
steel
ladder of tower frozen mid-collapse
the
clogged spout this town has become
boxcar
coke fumes and pools of oil leakage
loner
with a red bandanna toughing it out
barley-fertile air.


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