Doll Photographer

Not every form that has body has soul.
Consider the noetic eyes of the doll.

In the back room of a borrowed house, no furniture
except an old chest of drawers and mattress.

A storm’s pulling in from the west.

I grew up on America’s back roads, the scent of gasoline
leaching into the human cab.

Anaphora. Repeat the exercise.

With my noetic eyes, I spy
a desolate America, watch

gold light in the hotel room, horizon line
between sky and water,

endlessly opening. Stretch 
my eyes for the distance.
This world will be destroyed for an illusion.