Tourism
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overcooked. Hopefully this road is already
nameless; I am sure that the wind behind your
car will suck it down into the tire-strewn
canyon with the snakes and sage. Heat
bends the road, browns the stones,
burns the clouds.
The already wide open valley opens up
and we are incomprehensibly small together,
both from the lush Southern hills,
you pause your thoughts of God to ask me
in genuine interest if I am writing poetry
when I see these things and I can’t reply
precisely, but I know that a poem would
crush the scenery in a way that prayer
wouldn’t. Later, you won’t see the dime-sized
lizard hatchlings, these serious jewels, but
I will. Crossing my path, darting under rocks,
frantically alive, all over, and already at home
……………..Andy Trebing
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