My brother and I hop into the cab of a
'66 Ford, one of about a hundred fingering out
into my grandparents' yard, and
we take turns shifting gears, animating the rusted halls
with our mouths, lips pursed, burbling. Gangs
of crazed locusts spill from the exhaust, nevermind
the fucked manifold. Across the river
we spy a woman and child
sneaking down through the thistles and weeds,
loaded and loading into that infinite suck.
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