out of town

there it is from the vast view
a roll of carpets cottonwoods why don't you call it
choke and burn the bloated vaunted old city
full of proscriptions nervous vacillating sunk
with its history written in vanishing plaques all the way up
here it is the pretty scrublands there out of reach
the cones of hills the green and yellow and
sitting at a cafe table the honest to God artist