by Hezekiah Allen
the roads of New Mexico in March
are coarse, heavy with layers
of tar sleeping back to belly,
like long, black snakes procreating.
and usually a leftover pondering
of snow bites lightly into the north side
of a mesa as strings, rough-and-tumble threads,
of trains circle each mountain meticulously,
remembering the electric one
Mom still puts under the tree each Christmas,
a throwback to an American
fairy tale tradition: the smoke curling
up into sexuality.
and these live ones look the same--
Francine's Version -- Hezekiah's Version -- Inspiration
small squares tracing nonlinear paths
against the mountains, shuffling
massive loads of unknown cargo
past the last points of the Rocky Mountains
as they're spit out in a haze of light
blueness on the horizon.
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