On the fringes of Cottonwood, Arizona,
along the dusty steppes
of the car part end of town,
the red and black winged wasp
charges into its three-door bunker
pulling out chunks of red dirt
made of iron old as God
as grasses dry in cutting wind
and ants go one-quarter across
the cracked sidewalk, that mad world,
our mutual hallucinated nation,
hunting hard for fresh water,
finding none, needing more,
scattering wild at the country store,
and the black hawk call down
from the north reels from burning
scents of summer breezes
hurled from solar salts
from down south, the Baja,
the whistle through the window
indicates the Wednesday Mad Hatter
is going to wonder from behind insulated
chain stores with diminishing returns:
Maybe, today, tax forms will arrive
in time to beat the trucks
loading for a flood
