dhá

fickle as pots
buried for centuries
reunited
with hand worn human
touch

brushed of dirt
caressed
and swept kilometers
down dead highway
cities

hanging on for a breath
from the doom wagons
roaring
with different meat

escape beyond the sheep fences
hurry,
down sloping grass
to the prairie night

arrested by the open sky

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

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2 thoughts on “dhá

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