This one dated 11/13/70.
"Agua Prieta."
At dark or in the harsh light, paths will lead to a dead end.
The four well-dressed women alone in a bar
I had turned into by the railroad tracks.
Cold as a steep box canyon when it's too late to turn back.
Nowhere to climb, but a bar stool.
A woman refusing the nightcap of tequila.
Four women laughing, fondling each other.
A man could die of thirst here.
Washroom pictures of women drinking,
reversed on each other.
A chill sacrilegious feeling.
Bats screeching.
Things a child fears in the darkness.
All the exits bolted with long red fingernails.
But I can assume a more awesome shape.
A centaur.
The ability to move through the walls.