Lowlands Down in the bootheel, dust devils gather, dance - TopicsExpress



          

Lowlands Down in the bootheel, dust devils gather, dance dirty with screwbeans through strands of ruined grass. Mountains don’t creep, foothills onto plains. They stand against them. Watershed. Cowboys lose their wits in Animas, paint their own road signs, ride off into mirage. They read the weather in common knowledge, swoon when it pours forth. Everything is on the house. Folks drop back, fill empty pockets with iron will. They kill wolves, take their place and growl at the touch of the moon. Down in the bootheel, salt licks a rotten hand, roughnecks tramp through wormwood.
Posted on: Tue, 25 Nov 2014 13:43:41 +0000

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