morning among cattle

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
pastoral stuff

Submitted: May 22, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: May 22, 2013




this morning; a rural, ruddy stillness so moth-eaten and mouth-breathed

it's not so much to be grateful for.

the Old Colony we've tread to ruts, to unflexing tracts of petrified muscle.

crowsfeet have begun to show

where concrete collides into onion grass and hardened dirt.

animal bodies stick in these crosshairs

shuffled among salt,

faceted plastic scrap, glinting aluminum gems littered generously

by smoker's hands.

stonewall racks of granite molars are pocked with cavities. dissenting baby teeth lie elsewhere.

squat, anemic barns seared by their iron joints and sinews

lapse into the dour blush of smoke damage.

neon-orange reflectors shrill against the quiet.

houses consumed with the starved, arid burn of the hills,

scalped fields, holely highway, warping divides, ash-scented air,

grates gagging with turf,

trees, nude and accusatory spines grinning death to the sky,

gutted roadsides where water ate its fill and vanished---

Winter has revealed our age, roughly uncovering the palish, wrinkled expanse of our backsides.

later, in a different light; our people are like cows.

standing over the edges of property with large stupid eyes but rakes instead of stomachs.

woman in a black apron pitching undesirable weeds into the street,

pulling her wet paper off the sidewalk even though she doesn't want it anymore.

her ratty dog eats grass clippings and she herds him to the curb to vomit. her useless cowboy comes by on the mower,

hacking his way to their black lacquered door. 

we have become quite raw. found our corrals victimized and wild, 

our fences bloodied under the tide of snow.

i have not woken to eat, but to cultivate.

to tie back stray hairs

and chew my cud.



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