INDENTURE
I washed my own face in a
field of blood, and the whole
thing came off in my hands.
Placing it gently on the post
of the fence, I ran off. No
cockerils had run like this
before - I was a one-man
chicken farm, alone.
-
The field nearby was coated
with purple flowers, and stalks
of corn. Funereal, and with joy,
together, I had to urge to call
myself a farmer. How many,
of different notations, can this
wild world adhere to at any one
time. We're all from someplace
else? Is that the mystery rhyme?
-
My hammer made from a length
of steel allowed me to plant some
some posts into the ground - which
was harder than I'd suspected it to be.
A rich loam, maybe, for planting,
but hard, nonetheless, for me.
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