In October all of the leaves turn to stained glass,
they shatter like bombed churches across the sidewalk.

The drugs are in the trunk, stuck between gas cans and diapers.
Ahead, the border is the horizon, is a line of shimmering coke.

Sparrows bathe in potholes, sunlight falls in chunks.
The storm drain sighs and aeroplanes stiff-fingerpaint the sky.

Her head somewhere between cement and god,
she stands and begins to brush off her yellow dress.

There are sleepers in the eyes of the sky
and morning breath blowing across the city.

Jagged pieces of Spanish falling from the cop’s mouth
land like sharp tetanus in brown ears.

In the hiss of the nineteen seventy eight-track,
ghosts sing between the notes of a country song.

Two black crows make out, all tongues and no teeth
in the middle of the rain-stained street.

A coyote spread across the freeway,
a rusted shell of a car on the Rez.

The eyelids shed wishes,
two thumbs make preemptive war.

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