“Whatever Tape You Found in That VCR, It Isn’t Mine”

The canyon stares back, though—abysmal trim

gripped around a barrel, them all staring. Hover of

them over grassy expanse, the flap

of one plane against another, the flapping

feather coat left open for all the suns to see

them titties, flawed and lawful

as they oscillate. Watched over, totaled and floaty,

them all tender at their watched spots, them watch-

ing them, (all whimpers while

them titties trip them inside, though) a spacetime rip

so that the canyon that stares back—laughs at them—

asks their dicks right into their radiostatic hands.