Becoming Visible
I took a walk this afternoon into that place in childhood, where I became too many.
That farm house, with those warm smells and cattle milking, no room, no inn, no port of call,
Where the barnacled imposter settled in under the ribcage.
I guess it had a job to do to save the new born seed from dying,
I thought I lost it hitching along the gravel, chipping away at the soles, wearing down the tread, cutting to the hubcaps, hanging onto the late night juke box squeal; one more, once more,
I thought I dropped it along the path from glory.
There’s an old wood now behind that farm, with tall grass full of winter apples. There’s a red shale gash along he dry field where a palomino watches.
I can feel a crack spreading through me, and yes, I feel the husky grip loosening around the stony seed I grieved for long ago.
That farm house, with those warm smells and cattle milking, no room, no inn, no port of call,
Where the barnacled imposter settled in under the ribcage.
I guess it had a job to do to save the new born seed from dying,
I thought I lost it hitching along the gravel, chipping away at the soles, wearing down the tread, cutting to the hubcaps, hanging onto the late night juke box squeal; one more, once more,
I thought I dropped it along the path from glory.
There’s an old wood now behind that farm, with tall grass full of winter apples. There’s a red shale gash along he dry field where a palomino watches.
I can feel a crack spreading through me, and yes, I feel the husky grip loosening around the stony seed I grieved for long ago.
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