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 cars on an asphalt abacus,
and squawking at the blur
which bakes their onyx.
only seven jacaranda maidens
redeem this hell-tinged town,
drizzling soft flakes
to dust the curbs an ephemeral purple.
a fat owl hides
in the crook of one trunk,
same as bark,
face more of a knothole
than the gourmand it will be
when night unveils
a banquet of espionages:
a prosciutto of gophers.
a platter of voles.
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7/19/23 ... edits for flow and quality
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