Friday, November 18, 2005

Retreat Ride

The muddy ruts of the cornfield
already cut, mashed and ploughed under,
with occasional stalks amputated at the knee.

An old wreck of a house (now a shack)
with a sag-gut front porch and the roof about to collapse.
All shades of grey in the patched tar-shingle walls
falling into the crumbling morning.

Rounding the bend, sun tumbles through fall leaves of maples
turning into mid-october north-east-colors
and lands on tufts of scrub-grass in a pasture
with black&white/brown&white cows lounging and lazey.
One stands hunched, muscles taut,
pissing gallons into the golden universe.


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