on parallel lines. There is
a sense of order in this task
that is lacking at times elsewhere.
Forward as the breeze carries
with it songs of goldfinches and
freight trains, the smells
of honeysuckle and angry dog.
There's a bumper crop of tomatoes
this year, and a low spot
still flooded in mid-July. I push
forward thinking of these things,
or in better moments thinking
nothing at all, only a subconscious
recognition of parallel lines,
the smell of fresh cut grass,
a natural order, ever forward.
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