gas stations
predict the future, they say
when parched desert creeps north 
and parked cars perch at the mouth
of an abandoned cove's harbor.
a graveyard of waves, where waves hissed away,
where waves went to dry—
leaving ships unlisting by unloaded berths
grieving mists, grieving sky, grieving gray.

ridged, melted turf, and rusted goalposts
a conference of crows arguing
ravenous, rook-ous, racous racket
there's no more fresh trash, they say
only the bones the lost drivers stowed in the domed colonies in hope of clones
see the femurs, all stainless, devoid of marrow, useless for divination.
dry graves, dry waves, dry heaves, 
gas vapors caressing dusty eaves.

the sun fevers, demands submission.
the crows go north.

[Featured Image by Linus Belanger on Unsplash]