Warm Springs Highway
the dying light upon a dead man's bridge
a world of brown things named for white
rock and dirt and scraps they found
the leftovers
they tossed to those they
chased and trampled
into the desert scrub
of their barren culture
and now the children sing
tribal songs
about looney tunes
nasal call and response
set to a primordial rhythm
that sweeps my heartbeat along with it
across the dusty canyon floor
and carves deep scarifying gorges into my mind
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