A ponder house
a horizon-line truck stop
a cloud smoking a-ways off and
tin-roof triangles that point to nowhere but up.
Red rust bargains stand
in a man-less land, bright
by squared off horizon lines and
the undercover grass shadows like tufts of sour jade,
little jagged emeralds reaching upward.
Two seas staring
each other down by raw,
green distance; shade turned over into light, the
small pockets only seem right when reflected by
a flung-off sky,
a piece of pocket-sun
running away up and out of
strung-out clouds sitting on the edge of the undercurrent,
the border line
breaking point between now
and then, here and red, forever
stretching away into a cobalt-fever sky.
Stop a second,
breathe for two; can you feel
the whole scene flipping over itself,
flimsy, as it peels into a refractory reality,
as it reels into you?