West Texas Breakfast wakes us.
The road rides the land, its hills,
over the old dinosaur shells.
The universe was made
to become aware of itself
and then die. Dinos proved incapable
so God blew them to smithereens
and passed the tasks to us,
the gunbarrel He puts in His own mouth.
Out in Marfa, the ghost lights are burning.
Stars whisper secrets to the desert
that the city can't be trusted with.
This is something else though, something
we repeat only to ourselves,
light from Route 67 caught
in North America's darkest sky.
The compass finds its destiny.
The feet step. I read the road.
