Jun 2017
The mist in the collard greens
is moving like an old woman
in dusty lingerie making sparks
with a hoe where it lays tired
and the moon looks right odd
like an albino hawk in a dead
tree -  branches of solemnity
and worn out blue guitar strings -
while that old locomotive
of darkness  blows its steam
through my back porch screen.
Written by
r  NC
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