At the Post Office
Today a note came in the mail,
“Like death, New Mexico will catch up
with you in the end.” The exploited seasons
and earth will laugh last, thieving you of love.
After you are finally gone, the ground you owned
will really be off the grid. The land of pyromaniac
exiles will make it easy to arrive and impossible to leave.
Convulse in unbearable happiness, use a new
accent, conduct business with people
you will never see again, the dogs in each
village will lose their bark. Say hello
if you feel like it. Deliver yourself
from evil. No one in this exceedingly twisted
square inch of real estate cares to know
who you are. Knock yourself out, fool yourself,
deliver yourself from yourself.
RS 2010