Oil refineries rise like vacant cities,
throwing flames skyward–
smoking the excess like a cigar.
Pump jacks nod to a slow rhythm
on the grassy plains, cracked by drought,
sucking black gold out from under
the Texas sun.
Cattle gather near the water
where the chaparral clings to life,
tangled with the barbed wire fence
far from the single house–
an outpost of civilization
amid the vast, flat land
under the Texas sun.
The plows have abandoned the fields,
now fallow for the rainy season:
Neat rows cut in straight lines
as if with a razor, bleeding dust
into the wind and into our faces
as we run straight into
that Texas sun.
Green lawns are watered by the Gulf of Mexico,
and oil rigs rise up from its depths to stab the horizon
that we now run to greet the Texas sun.