So much copper has been lifted from this hillside
Like a tumor, that what is left is pure,
Empty of thought, free for desire,
—The ghosts are simply those without bodies,
Dancing in the aetherous void.
The skeletons are resting, as black irradiates to blue.
The first outlines past the valley—are they mountains or clouds?
Are these cracked concrete structures ruins or homes?
What compelled these now-quiet cars to wind around these broken
hills?
Is it that the ghosts are finally free of the holy spirit,
That substrate of God gone on to animate electric machines?
And will the sun ever show above the peachfuzz haze
To make the questions clearer, or at least
Expel the shadows that hold, perhaps, what truth can be told?
When it finally pops above the range, the sun, like a smelter, blinds
and burns
In that Arizona way, direct from the Central Source,
And lit things roll down the hill like slag left over from so much ore.
All I can do is descend the mountain, to seek answers, a fool’s
fortune, somewhere else.
