Broken Yard

your stomach a broken yard.
lampshade off its head,
midday light blistering pavement,
tar, black,
leaves brushed into piles
brushed away again,
how the wind howls like a lost dog,

how the neighbors thrust their curtains shut
to erase the sight,
how you wander alone, lap after lap until dawn again,
eating roll after roll of barbed wire,
snaking it between your teeth,
yard after yard.

barefoot, you ponder.
the empty stomach a frontier.
sandstone polished by aching feet.
gates set up without hinges,
like loose teeth,
hanks of dirt and weed.
you take a toke
and wonder over
the saltiness of the sun
pouring through that
lampshade.

the formation of dust devils
in your backyard.
the laziness of the shade
draped over discarded objects:
bicycle tires, sandals,
tools with rotted handles.
the heat an
oppressive blanket
coating your skin
in oil.

thirst.
how it settles in your stomach
like prozac.