By | 1 October 2010

Somewhere in Patagonia, to the lonely panic
of the pedestrian lights
an old woman with a wooden axe
carries a cart, vacant as dreams.
At the corner shop, peeling skin
with one eye, she stops
three legs perched on something terrible.
It is barely noise.
Market day. The bus arrives on foot.
Then comes the mill, shrieking,
its windows boarded
as if empty. Dawn.
The people are stuffed with tumbleweed.
The dogs are still dogs—
some alone, others in taxis
their backpacks
ajar for viewing.
Traffic lights litter.
Passengers bring props.
The closed storefronts cross the road
greeting each other silently
like strangers standing
before the raw wind.
An old man grows sturdy
like absence. A kitten
departs like evening.

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