As Long In Tooth


Film rolls inside our brains, dark rooms,
dog trots along the fence line--the camp
liberated by vacancy--where the night meets.

Cams grind gunked with clay and soil, gray
as an old womans laughter on the cellphone
and in the quiet. A horn plays the subway,

mourns the right to speak, the right to hear--
moon weather. Gone! taken away in black
packages, like little flaws in LED displays.

"It's getting worse," the whispers have it.
Head bones and hog squeals, naked in my
leather vest, I drive out to burn the field.