a town that smells of barbecue
a hill smokes as early as eight
in the morning.
White chuffs of meaty air
pour over the
passersby in uniforms. They clutch lunch, waiting for the
bus to top
A train sears
southern air, clouds filled with meat,
the bus exhaust, the
exhaust. The hills reply its whistle, a siren
The trees' droppings
every surface with pollen. Pathless.
shifts to bring the sound of the highway, asphalt-glazed.
leaves click against dead ones.
off the bare bulbs of outdoor lights,
They go out around midnight They go on
At dawn, there was glass in the street.
All clear. Jars' and jars' worth,
the clipped shards
for half a block.
A corridor of shards to collect and
The dead roaches accumulate in a corner.
They must be swept up delicately with an old magazine page
or an envelope.
the reminder of the
poison coating the lining of the house.