by Karla Mancero and Brian E. Langston

sand, wind
drops of rain
a peeking sun
surprises the clouds

somewhere distant
gears churn into motion
machines evacuate the earth

a photo, black and white
a texture of color
lost on a day
spiritual waves

he shoots a gun, his silver teeth
a tin star, desert bronco
eight cylinders churning, gasoline

a story begins
and ends with
the sunset
the machines die
without learning anything

the grain has no direction
birds fly against the wind
sand in the teeth
sapphire Atlantic, rumble
and ivory foam

he gains a
compass as
she breaks the
distance, the
fires are seen
before recognized

wildflowers, yellow and red and orange
the color of autumn’s flames
smelting two hearts into one golden sun

to the beach they
go regardless of
floating time
hourglasses left over

the machines decay in saltwater
are ground smooth and timeless
become corral reefs
or are worn into sand

if brothers and sisters
cross drowning land
and parches waters
then the worn down
machines can grow
over with flesh

he pawns his silver teeth and empty gun
buys himself some driftwood and a mizzenmast
ties an anchor to his leg
and sets sail, out to sea

30 years later she holds
the hand of an old
man and turns up the
volume on his teeth

on his teeth … he has no
solid ground to walk on, takes
her by the arm and they
gray haired amble past machines
springing forth with flowers
and the timeless sun, textures
of waves, and a day in which wind
surprises the clouds, brothers and sisters
grains slipping past
like hour-sand, quick-sand
an anchor washes ashore
bound to driftwood, an old sail
the sun setting in a photograph