Until Rabbits Get Guns

the enso

"A Sign of the Times — West Texas" by marlowe

the poem

Wind turbines will dot
the West Texas horizon
like giant mutant daisies,
compete for attention
with the stout oil rigs, each
mining the earth. You will dine
al fresco in 100-degree shade
and realize hydration
is a zero-sum game. Dust
devils and vultures will spiral
together, side by side
in the same field
like synchronized swimmers.
There will be no water here.
Prickly pears will stub
shiny, barren fields like bristles.
The trees will retreat,
dormant ribbons of rust
striating the bluffs bleached
blond by the sun. The highway
will manifest in front of you,
achieving solidity
a few hundred feet at a time
from a shimmering wet path
that melts at the horizon,
always just out of reach,
a mirror reflecting back
to you the future.