An imaginary line begins
where bullets fell after leaving
the rifles’ mouths. The last
patches of earth without breadcrumbs
summons scavengers. See the line
propelled by wagon wheels, minivans,
starships, how it unfurls as a lariat
from a hand. That is to say: it never
releases, only widens the noose.
Underneath the Last Frontier
mechanical pigs scrub
the pipelines clean so the oil may flow,
just as the oilmen travel between the North
Slope and the Dakotas. Their persistent contrails
etch the sky white. When I show you a map
of my home, I hold my hand out, upside down
with my palm facing away from you. I don’t want
to show you my heartline, or its traces.