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That Road


That road through the country

unspooling under a dark mountain

massages my shins like wine.


Cinnamoned cliffs protest

my salt and pepper ideas.

The day in the city is over.


Old trees on the hillside crack

their knuckles into the air,

pulling at lyres of light.


Birds glide on updrafts

of the wound I released.

The day in the city is over.


Grasses bend in stress

and winds unknot muscles

leaning hard as a masseuse.


Wheat, a promise panting

through the throat of the valley,

nods: the day in the city is over.


We wait under the sun,

enduring impossible delays

of this growth. If


the farmer holds

our heads up to the sickle,

the day in the city is over.


But all is well.

Still on the way, trusting

earthbeats know their sway.

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