As the rice fires rise like weather balloons,
The canals refine fuel down the curves
Into the money jaw of Houston.
Then the shrub and flow of low Louisiana,
Where no journey can come easy,
Even though that's how it seems,
The patties too far inland from the quasi-mythic sea.
Nothing like a city, what must be a dream,
Double-crossed at its dreaming,
Lake Pontchartrain and its deep blue
The only exit from the refuge.
