William Stanier

 

Texas Noir 

Bugs rise barely breathing, 

snap-able pinwheels without 

an ounce more in torque. 

Noon: when shadows tether 

to their referents. 

Insufferable tour guides 

back-peddling through rows of Italian fir. 

Other trees, what did we name them?

The imaginary ledger of things 

you point at and say, Wow

A stone in the middle of it, 

and below that a body. 

All of our enemies 

justly murdered by their butlers. 

Yours truly, like a journalist 

on a losing streak only aware of spaces

yanked out from under the real. 

The language arts, 

which do nobody any good.