107 in Sunland
the sun gnaws on sprinkler-fed lilies.
it pinches ants till they riot,
irascible manic flames.
crows gloom the phone wires,
cursing at the cars on the asphalt abacus,
squawking from the blur
which bakes their own onyx.
seven jacaranda maidens
redeem this hell-tinged town,
drizzling soft flakes
to dust the curb ephemeral purple.
a fat owl hides
in the crook of one trunk,
skin same as bark,
face more of a knothole
than the gourmand it will be
when night unveils
its banquet of espionages:
a prosciutto of gophers.
a platter of voles.
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9/3/24 ... eds..
7/19/24 ... edits for flow and quality
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