the dawn, pill-bottle orange,
falls on the highway
its light lands on lost
glass and johnson grass
crumbling together
into blacktop parking lot
grasshoppers rattle
chitinous wings, skeleton castanets
heard just by the sheetmetal mudflap girl
in silhouette above the red door
inside, at a three-legged table
hunger wrestles off
its leather straps
it convulses in gagging witchtrial fashion
upon the floor, stage, the mirrored ceiling,
and about the pole—
from beneath the day's first drink—
from behind the cracks in her eyes,
the last dancer
writes her hope in beer sweat
and then looks up
into neon and ashtray morning,
looks up crazy-eyed
as if she has done something unforgivable
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