presents a liquid silver sky
over dead straw fields.
Through a wall of misty haze
the no-named gravel road,
on which my indentation
remains proof,
lures me toward
the toy farmhouse.
Invisible pitchforks threaten
with their rusty edges
as I attempt to move forward.
I lay down before them
exhausted and shoeless
in your field.
© 2013 d.c.p.
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