Windows Down, Let It In

A beat-down super-heated morning, and the tainted sun’s a boiling yellow welt.
It stews the roadside table of begonias and geraniums supported by cinder blocks.
The air’s heavy with struggle, charged breath.
I flick the AC knob, pump the air, recycling the cool until
turning on the country road, compelled to drink suffocation,
I press the buttons, windows down.

Bad mustard breath floods the car, smells of muddy creeks,
grit and leaves, breezes shoving, stereo bellowing at barking trucks.
I join something native,  veins swell on my hands like fossil prints in shale.
A pregnant sky cracks: zippers shred, ripped shrieks, compounded shocks.
Gowns of water drape over corn fields.

Beneath monstrous covers, a nuclear heat-bomb
slides off the horizon.
Oppressive fallout spills paint
on my conscience, which has failed
to curb or confess its desires
colored like bloody plums, rotten peaches.