The grills are buried so symmetrically
and fins spiked so precisely, so aligned,
that in the whip of earthbound dust and heave
of heaven’s blue, we know it’s by design.
We gather there, we passing masses dragged
from freeway travel, all to leave our mark
on rusted hulls, these psychedelic flags
which speak to our existence, our fleeting spark
of time within the Ranch’s ordered wild.
We shake the cans of paint, consider what
exactly we will leave inscribed so mild-
ly—all the brightest, most exquisite knots
of meaning, message, poems, and life will soon
be painted over, prey to others’ runes.