Sun Tunnels of Lightning Fields

By Alex Baker

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Ally made two open-faced almond butter toasts
they sat on my lap past Prada Marfa’s sequined left shoes.
Diagonal cuts of shadow melted the almond shards,
became that sun dial in the community garden,
dripped canyons back out and tent zippers back in. 

We treaded water for so long  
that the train’s sirens could be heard underwater.
Within Hole-N-The-Wall we looked at 
victorian dolls porcelain eyes  
hadn’t seen daylight since the ‘20s. 
The builders were buried there, 
had lived in exploded Arizonian rock  
made taxidermy donkeys,  
ran a diner right next to their brass bed. 

The thing about the Salt Flats 
is that there was a vintage car expo 
like some kind of cover. 
Blue lights hovered and swapped places, 
descended in the white sand after we assembled burritos.
Three black dots suggested concrete tubes,
ones that align with the solstice. 
If it weren’t for the Colorado driver who filled
our tank we would have stolen the neon diner sign,
cracked under the mountain lions’ fingertips.