We’re hanging in deep heat
over the husk of old Abilene,
 
a host of buzzard tourists in teal 
and tungsten anti-grav Wellingtons.
 
The guide-track waxes wise
in our sprouted earbuds:
 
Through the last days,
their abandoned missile silos
 
filled with slant rain. The locals 
dove deep in those dark pools, 
 
came up coughing limped 
Chaldean, clumps of rust-blood. 
 
Pored that mass with fork 
and tongs, hunting synonyms.

James Miller is a native of the Houston area, though he has spent time in South America, Europe, China and India. His poems have appeared in Sweet Tree Review, Cold Mountain Review, The Maine Review, Lullwater Review, Lunch Ticket, Gravel, Main Street Rag, Verdad, Juked, The Write Launch, The Shore, Menacing Hedge, Califragile, Meat for Tea,  Plainsongs, The Atlanta Review, and elsewhere.