Morning Poem # 3

Posted on | September 28, 2007 |

Swallows swoop in at the barn door
and their feathers, bones filled with air,
brush up against the corrugated metal roof.

The air is rife with musk and hay
and the hot piss of sheep
pressing against each other
in woolly urgent nearness.

The sky bends down closer to the earth now;
blue tucking the edges of the vermilion mountains in;

and every vine heavy with wild grapes
bittersweet.

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