no evidence of life on these tumbleweed-lined streets
moving down roads with no way to capture the images
though all these signs of lonliness need to be photographed
be remembered
for some later solice
some later company

laying down, face pressed against hot asphault,
the smell of dirt and oil and rubber
the dusty smell of new rain

some prospector has laid out lines,
hammered in stakes,
a superficial attempt at eking out a territory
that will just be washed away, blown away

what is coming toward me?
what is coming for me?
burned by the blackness laid out in the sun,
passing by and never stopping