Ghost Town

No ma’am, no passport here.
No roots or falls, just wind, vistas,
unrolled hat brim, desert buttes,
signs for corn and beer: not warm invites

but not negations, either. No one said
there’s water. All last stop for Furnace
Creek’s white dunes, where fossilized—
no dinosaurs, no Christ—

skeletons of track nails spill
across a crumbled, empty bed,
breathless still. The shimmer
on the rail. Our nothing there.