Hammering the Seeds
(for Michael Olito)
frozen
a drift
on the prairie
no tracks in the snow
no bit of fence
to guide
a ghost
towering through the rows
dragging the plow behind
cutting deep swaths of stone
hammering the seeds home
hammering the feather once taken
roaring at the
roaring mausoleum
running with the herd
still running
watching
listening
trembling
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