A hot place, four dried pines from ascension,
and willing to spread, like smoke,
heavenward.
People shimmer in mirages—
sticks quaking in sun
coming off all that trailer park chrome.
And dust, lots of dust,
chokes throats, chafes eyes,
makes noses bleed.
But it’s good here, and quiet.
Especially at night. The cool settles,
even those pines seem alive.
