Immigrants

Immigrants

Chunk-slab plaster, chunk-slab plaster, plaster-chunk.
Grape-juice rottened, hardened heaving throats;
we alternate sour stomachs down the crooked path.

Communal voyages reiterate our state.
Slight-dry mouths, sunken drawls, brawling blood,
sustain our Sorrow-Full-life.

Nothing, nothing compares to wind-blown hair, blown south.
Nobody dare cares to box-car travel, oil-growl, car-handle, down the interstate 5.