TRESPASS by Matt Gano

///TRESPASS by Matt Gano
TRESPASS by Matt Gano2016-03-26T07:41:55+00:00

We cloaked in dark navy
our bags obese with Rust-O’s,
fat-caps and thins,
we were as big as we could be.
The faint clacking of cans
called to rattlesnakes coiled
in the rockery like land mines.
In the desert night, the sagebrush
rose from its haunches to follow our trail,
sweep out our footprints, take our names,
hold them under its tongue, between its teeth
like a Darkling beetle in its jaw.
We hung to the dirt and gravel path
down iron tracks into the train tunnel
to throw our mistakes and masterpieces
up on cooling concrete walls
on tip-toe, to extend our radius.
The hissing aerosol mocked reptile.
We painted with trespass, impermanence,
knowing with countless coats of cover up
our names would be buffed
deep into the city.