Outside of Moab, they’re replacing Time
With sidewalks. Rolling either way, they pass
Monuments, which will never now occur,
First heart attack which ended with a kiss.
In Kingman they are stocking all the bars
With Mexican beer and tulgey wood, in Page
Nothing but churches and the refugees
From Old California missions and next spring,
The spring after that, and pools in desert towns.
Nothing sets like a sidewalk laid on Time,
Fossilized bugs and palm prints. Over in Brush,
The Mayor declared that Time was just a myth,
Some immigrant’s invention. He pronounced
Chicken-fried steak the plat du jour; he drank
A Nehi Orange, and Time just washed away,
Like fiddlers on a flood plain in the rain.
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