5 january 2012
From The Old Farmer
Over yonder past stacks of wheat and hay
There lies the first pavements of a newly born city
Ever beautiful and frightening still
I am watching, standing like the American gothic
But with overalls and a straw hat
I fork my hay, moving it to free the image
To free the image of this paved monolithe
Flat like a laid down headstone
Indeed, a headstone to mother earth
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