Radio waves nestle against my chest
as the dry hills whir up and down,
a seismic machine weathered with asphalt wrinkles.
The sky is bigger here;
a tapestry of blues and whites.
struggle to drink them in,
fearful that you will look upon the vast heavens
and find them hollow.
Where there is green, it is beige.
Where there is life, it is dry.
Where there is flora, it is a withered yellow rose,
and where there is sky,
it is hollow.
You want a tattoo?
Here’s your tattoo, Danny,
all inked in scar tissue
with a cattle brand needle
in the soft nape of your neck.