Languishing poles. Highway of wobbly crucifixes, running the length of asphalt where the unmerciful sun crashes earth. Sharp black silhouettes dive-bomb steeple ears of corn at the place the Lord floats to heaven. Crows die on the land, sometimes falling from the sky. Water slapping the wrong side of the ocean. A vertical worry crease in her forehead–
a flesh canyon to hold wetness for droughts sure to come. Dried deadness. Fields twisted from parched riverbed to riverbed. He guzzles precipitation from a flat silver flask, tarnished on the rim, where it once was forgotten in a steamy summer rain.
Farm got in the way of her writing. Words got in the way of his drinking. Clogging the soil and his arteries.
Crows fall from the sky, like May flies in August.
artwork created way, way, way back in college, ink print from a zinc plate etching
