With tarantula hawks,
Shotguns, dead bodies
At the ready, every
Fast food-friendly
Livery box of rat
Waits just past the dunes
Which go on, it seems,
Forever, much as the sand
Skeins are torn
By Polaris bodies
Hurtling past
As act of war.
There is no place
To be ourselves,
Hence the mobile home
Wagon train
And tires inflated enough
To go anywhere,
As if there was a somewhere
Called escape.
