Radiant Number 8 gravel a rougher bed
than shell roads you said, and I said yes.
Heat makes the air dance baked shimmy-shake
mirages pooling in rut-roads, flouring us with
dust the color of talc, but no mind. We’re gone
down to where there is nothing but bent grass
and dry sunflowers, all the everynothing, to
listen to the vast chirring terse once stopped.