Frog Snack

The desert drew a mirage, dripping paint
Pollock on a field, feet blistering
from caked in boots, toes peaking out
shouting some hallelujahs in chorus
with those angels he refused to hear;
I saw it, on that horizon, Eiffel tower rising
dust spinning in sudden winds, in the valley beyond
the sudden explosions, like apostolic Damascenes
shafts of light dispersing shadows under cottonwoods.
There were drifting sunflowers, drooping
heavy headed from the brilliant cascade, impressed
no doubt, by the foot sore traveler passing them by
shaggy haired, knee bitten hustler, two bit
player, pulling out of a planet dive, too late
skimming dirt like a mosquito in plastic bogs,
carelessly scooped up like a frog snack.


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