Poems
West Texas
Crop circles here
are not mysterious,
created by some starry stranger.
They are a way of life —
the only way to coax
living things from the dust.
Some grow in pairs —
a crop-encrusted
dusty reel-to-reel.
Some overlap
like records
stacked a little too loosely.
Dots on top of dots.
They brand the landscape
with half-moons
and slices of pie.
Sometimes the sun
sucks the droplets away
before they are absorbed.
Beyond Amarillo
the earth begins to turn
from coerced green
to its ordinary sandy hue.
One thin dirt trail
leads only to another.