WEBVTT

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This is a slightly
more political poem.

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It's called "Twice I
Consider my Country."

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A raccoon lies
quietly in the sun,

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trickle of a river
between furrows of sand.

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This is life it
has need of water.

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How rare to see
one in the desert.

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By glowing charcoal,
bottle shot up

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in the mouth of an Indian
cave, the red opal of blood

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at the temple of a raccoon,
the Santa Cruz bends

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from the highway and odor of
processed sewage in the breeze,

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I am looking for boundaries.

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It's like crawling again.

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Obscured by sunflowers,
wild olive branches,

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there paint gun only
ribs in the sand,

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1940 models, the war
babies, show up the road.

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I hear their dashboard
radios blaring again.

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This same old war, they shake
as the cars keep coming.

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They have not abandoned
America, like the river, slowly,

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they go underground.