by james miller

Devil’s Tower

on the horizon,

a severe obsidian

fingernail.

I said: the god

is climbing over.

Hungry

after

seven million miles

of sleep.

Not far.

Aladdin.

We bought

their best coffee cup,

and gas.

I asked her,

how long

have you sold gas?

A long time,

a long time. She frowned,

and her ringless fingers

said: No photos,

not one.

We don’t vote

here.

Every night

we slip off

work socks,

stroke

kitchen grout

with our scabbed

toes.

By breakfast

we’ve counted

every person

who’s ever lived.

James Miller is a native of the Texas Gulf Coast, now settled in Oklahoma City. His work has appeared in Best Small Fictions (2021), Hopkins Review, Broadkill Review, San Pedro River Review, Heavy Feather Review, The Atlanta Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Psaltery & Lyre, Soundings East, and elsewhere. Website: jamesmillerpoetry.com.