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I would love to have my picture taken
standing beside this honey locust. There I am
holding a bean pod and needled legume
while my free hand rests on the head of my
mother who sits quietly on a rosined railroad
tie. There are lavender flowers everywhere,
stretching out of the tall grass. Their blooms
look like a gazillion caterpillars, their little
legs motioning eagerly for us. Waving.
Blowing kisses as if my ass were a flag for
Jesus. And beneath the feet of my long-term
gurney the ground is hard and flat and cuts
through fields near our cemetery. Crazy
people die here. O look! Under the granite
and moss lies Bob. Now that is viminal and
hell. Or dale. Or toggery meant to retard
this poet. But the holy bell am I who whips
his steed past noon and gamely circles these
portals with autonomy.
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