It is hard to describe: when the window
is down and the sun comes up, following
a pelican into a shed filled with orange
tractors and dirt bones, being watched
by men as the wings close in, the tiny
mites that cover the body. In eyes
flicker fins. I'm looking at you. Glass
trigger in the face, waiting for me
to open my mouth. If we were braver
we'd be scared of you. As it is, we isn't.