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These hills
were not meant to hold me. Not
me with my pale skin or
me with my curving hips, not
me too round for burning spoons
exploding sheds
miles and miles of sagebrush land.

These hills
were not meant for humans. They
scrape restlessly at the leaden sky,
scrape tiredly with winds to heaven
scrape me dry in each arroyo
each dryplot land.

These hills
are echoing with drunken coyote howls
searching restless for a hit of corpse or crystal
searching hungry for the hearts of hollow
searching low-slunk belly dust-dragged
the sagebrush receding
in this rear-view land.