THIS VAIN ALLOY
This vain alloy anneals to nothing, stands firmer
than steel yet withers as well when done. The farmer,
in his mis-shapen ideas of trade, thinks the same way
of corn and oats and wheat. Perhaps mistaken, this all
goes down in the end. Barns and silos, no matter how
things appear, can only hold a temporary crop.
-
Out by the river, they were herding cows - those bovines
who slosh in the water, barely jumping in herds the broken
limbs. I've never seen anything like it again. Alongside the
farmhouse, on a higher ledge, wasps were hanging, perilously
nasty, to each fat pear on the tree. The old, black Chevy
truck, just as dangerous in its timeless malaise, seemed to
linger and then sag on its wheels. Memory does that to things.
-
That was long before my armistice with myself. Signed in blood.
I'd promised to leave all these items alone and never return. Yet, in
part, this vain alloy of what I am knew, even then, that I'd be, and
only be, lying if I said never. I protect my prerogatives like gold.
-
Solid matter entrances. Only the things that sag never return -
like a Dali clock, I too am stretched now over rock and perilously
dripping and close to a break. I breath in deep only to try and
stay calm. Nothing, however, seems to work for that,
though my vain alloy keeps trying.
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