Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Near Bedford.

Stop and smell the pot ash and seed hulls in the dirt--
The enamel of your ancestors

So wild and proliferate, that fields
Teem with hotly colored flowers to compete.

A sun that once roved orangely across van Gogh's eyes
Distills the corner, by a truck and your waiting friends.
Stop.  Waste everything;

Now, I want you to look at me.

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