The neck’s white heat

The neck’s white heat blasts down my shoulders
noon desert
train cars stacked along Golf Links Road
final shipment uncollected
rage into the gas pedal

to make you choose destruction
all the geometry pieces sight their Nazca lines
17 miles past 7 wasted years

the cars turn into feathers
the horizon to a gate
I am the pilot of an angel
driving towards the wall


Robin Wyatt Dunn was born in Wyoming in 1979. You can read more of his work at Read other articles by Robin.