clouds over the horse field, wood fence in the old style
the rainwind over my ears feels like microphones
stacking up in the distance, some light and some dark
like my head is a cathode ray tube and i am the tiny darting electron gun
the second story windows of the old house prism the sky as i move past
and the once-glinting blades and facets of the metallic garden
are rough red from the elements, the cool drops blowing down on me
the old farm implements long since jangling over the fields
like broken bottles hung in the sun, they have found death as art
when i get home, bent untying my shoes
my pants smell like rain, the scent reminds me of you
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