The land is still flat, brown,
not scorched but overturned, overused,
a little too loved and a little to abused
until finally it is pummeled down into dust
even Adam's God wouldn't recognize.
Clouds float atop the stratosphere
like algae atop of a pond
where the water is too polluted to drink.
The sun bleeds out like a christ on the horizon,
puddles of orange and red and blue and purple
oozing an oil spill across the sky.
From this distance, no one hears the sobbing,
and the tears are mistaken for spring dew.
In this America, some sacrifices are necessary
even at the expense of heat and light.
Next to the interstate, three baby doe nibble on our remains.
Accustomed as they are to headlights,
they fail to notice the spotlight and the pooling of blood
that looks like water in the liquid darkness.