Ghost Writer

The blue-and-white Cessna coughed out over the desert floor—
there is a blinking margin of starry night that’s canal water.
A clumsy coyote descends an old hill of garbage. Death is visiting
my friends.
No one is impressed any longer. Column inches
    of suns
in the stagnant water. Death, in fact, is shy and clumsy—looking
over its shoulder. The unscheduled slinking through a moonfield

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