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 mounds of rubbish.

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

    like dead beer cans.

    Shot in the gut or rump， they writhe and try to burrow

    into garbage， hide in old truck tires，

    rusty oil drums， cardboard boxes scattered 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.