Someone told me once that after gas stations
dry up, nothing can grow in their place.

Something about pipes & gasoline, ethanol
carcass splayed open like a dead animal. Imagine:

electric rubber cords just pulsating in heat
across America. My shoes are wet with cooled

methanol, toes rubbing together like Jack
tripping down the hill for someone he shouldn’t

catch. The weeds look gray this August: ghost-
men standing still. Eat one flower petal & stay

underground forever. Letters can only flicker
neon for so long. The day can run out of light.