Thursday, June 26, 2014

Field Trip

And the rows of crops
Short and fat
Crawl like a centipede across
But then you blink and the legs stop
And become like neatly lined piles of bricks
And from the horizon of the clay spring white
Wind mills scraping away and the sky
Bent blades like wilted petals
The train pummeling the ground beneath it, racing itself
Trickling down the column of your spine

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