Always in the shadow
the north side of the mountain
our town of scrap
wood and old tin,
duct tape and tarpaper
never had a name.
Never claimed, christened,
never chartered we remained
incorporeal as wind
that gusted with sand grains.
In the boonies we bruised
where the Bogeyman watched
us sleep. We refused
Pistachio, Harbinger, Zeal.
Our Post Office a bucket,
a boulder our idiot, we
called where we collected
the dry and cold
forgotten in scrub oaks
between prairie and scabland,
scabland and gravelly arroyo.
We lotioned our elbows
and whispered day to day
in a dialect of moth.
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