Technicians
of the Sacred shed feathered garb for disposable gowns and regular
pay, where roadrunners rot in the sun--no diesel power,
no CB squawk--lopping like tireless lung-gom-pa,
attention trained on a long-dead star.
At
the close of the Civil War, teenaged boys--"Naturally
good, sound to the core," in big floppy hats,
leather chaps, high-heeled boots with jingle-jangle spurs, bellies
filled with red beans and coffee grounds, maneuvered talented
ponies along spooky routes...
Where
Cross and Pentagon, the mercurial
god is a bright red truck
lumbering coffins through towns where
trains don't stop anymore.
Paratext |
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