Deep into the crispy trail
on my cousin's 80 acres
George W. Bush does not exist.
***
A plastic orange ribbon
hangs from a tree branch.
My shoes are caked with bearshit.
***
A thin dead tree
arches over the trail.
I stomp on a wineglass.
***
Beyond the barb wire
across the rolling field
a black cow stares back at me
we clutch our notebooks
***
Grasshoppers hopping all over the place
bouncing off my feet
yearning for Wal-Mart
basho...basho...familiar ring to it...didn't he play left tundra for the edmonton trappers?
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