Sunday, November 27, 2011

Primitive Road

Primitive Road

Past the swirl of yellow cemetery dust,
shallow-rooted trees, homemade toys at roadside....

A farmhouse, tiny windows, gently sways
beneath oval-carved clouds.

It is so easy to end up broke with no more
than an end-crust of pocked rye bread.

A farmer sweeps off a black-dust bed,
sets aside his father's blood-wet eagle head cane.

On the westward downslide of a rutted two-track,
a boy in a careening pickup listens to his heart begin to race.

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