Dear bor/der patrol officer,
you chased me into the
broi/ling land/scape. Fear
dro/ve me like the low
winds of a storm. I got
away with the uncla/imed
dust. I want to ap/ologize
for not gi/ving us a chance
to sit under the acacia
black/brush and talk about
what it means to be on the
inside of a line that mo/ves
like a fat belly. I wonder
what kind of wis/dom is
co/di/fied in/si/de your
han/dbook. Is there a
cata/log of lost ton/gues?
Are tribes tracked by the
displaced mile? Is there a
bla/ck/list for boys who
disregard space? But never
mind all this, I’m wri/ting
to see if we can find a way
to cha/ng/e the sa/me
old sto/ry. Let’s sit. We
have grown in/si/de each
other like the wood/worm.
But our daught/ers, th/ey
jump rope in the same
bac/ky/ard. Pe/rhaps, they
hold the key to what we
a/r/e. P/e/rh/ap/s, th/e/y
mean amplitude the way
we mean f/ence. I have to
go now, shou/ld start
picking all the ripe oranges.