DOUGLAS S. JONES
A Gathering of Transits
Church busses shoot toward the prophet. Pilgrims
Pile rocks along the interstate.
Behind the liquor store, salt
Spreads like cocaine, the earth’s bend
Visible in wide white.
After Utah, Saturday is a whole state
Waxing silver in daylight—
Casino buffets, David Allen Coe
In a gas station of the new millennium.
The anthem here is idling motors,
The crescendo of gears splitting east and west
Like cigarettes and ice cream,
Like winter burning through the nose.
Three Days After the Storm
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