Bring a thousand miles of rusted gates.
Slurry upland and rest
by the prickly
Holly nest
grazing on the leeward
of changing hills,
dwindling roots.

It’s shadow, a memory,
as shadows are
hiding the face
, avoiding stepdads
And consequences
Of the nuclear family.
In lucid daydreams

are the muddy puddles
filling in the potholes
Every winter, we
embrace like the
Goodnight kiss, saying
Does it mean anything if
cows are happy?

When the storm clouds
settle in bulbous purple
Expanse across
waves of field,
And this town’s complacent decay
Is just one year
further along?

When always there are flies.