26 June 2009

pioneers

counting bruises
oh
are we
apples
sail upon trampled fields
of water wheat
you grow
gold
w/ your soiled hands
she
drinks &
i drink
strawberry wine
cold
forgotten behind trails of bison bur
&
indian grass
smelling in barberry
or may-apple maybe
we wait
for it to get dark
for our skin to hide

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