Loaded on beer and whiskey， we ride

    to the dump in carloads

    to turn our headlights across the wasted field，

    freeze the startled eyes of rats against mounds¹ of rubbish.

    Shot in the head， they jump only once， lie still

    like dead beer cans.

    Shot in the gut² or rump， they writhe³ and try to burrow⁴

    into garbage， hide in old truck tires，

    rusty⁵ oil drums， cardboard boxes scattered⁶ across the mounds，

    or else drag themselves on forelegs across our beams of light

    toward the darkness at the edge of the dump.

    It's the light they believe kills.

    We drink and load again， let them crawl

    for all they're worth into the darkness we're headed for.