WRENS AND BEETLES
All the things of this world
run along. The glass of the
window I am watching shows
reflections of a little town on
the move. Its own small version
anyway : men in rough caps,
ladies with bags and handles.
Two men exit the State Store:
hard liquor sold therein and
nowhere else. It's a pact made
with the Devil and the Government
together, but these men don't care.
-
Why am I standing here? Blades
and ornaments; piles of seeds, all
bagged of course. Just watching
people pass - they buy things in
a fruitless eddy of no constraint,
as if time twirling around them
made no difference now. A new
season to announce their triumph.
-
At the register, displays of oils
and lubricants, all those bolt
soakers and rust inhibitors, seem
to sink their eyes into mine, to
find where I am locked or seized
into place. A calendar with a little
girl atop a tractor shows the month.
It must be translatable, I figure,
in some farm-language I've not
yet mastered. Too quick the
tongue for this.
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