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On a brilliant Sunday morning drive,

bound by nothing more than absence

and wandering with empty scarlet eye sockets

I took my cane out and began beating that beast again

the cattle trough is drained, the creek bed dry,

ghosts swarm the skeletal trees

everyone is not like you, any more

She sleeps like a widow, observes my mother,

tomorrow I will feed you the stones from my eyes,

it will be the first landing of a UFO,

you never hear them creeping, 

triangles weave through the dunes

“softly as they leave”