old men who don't talk much
see the bloody horse on the horizon
white door opening into a tree gnarled
by verglas, their overalls hang off
the smokehouse castle.
in the sunroom, a view of
torchlight buds in the glittering hills and
the Amish kids in their black clothes & hats
walking down the barbed fence and one
falls to the ground,
carriage overturned by the highway when
waving at a stranger
the sunset orange
everyone knows
each other
how everyone knows
a starry mountains bloodline is silt
dropping into the dry river, but I'm
safe in the car. I'll pick the creek later
teeth like sugar-cubes,
falling in the hay
right now I'm
sloughing skin off the pig
meet me back in
the cornfield, cousin.
By Julia Adams
Biography:
Julia Adams is a poet from Bowling Green, Kentucky who flips eggs for a living. Julia's biggest passions are animals, love, and doing nothing in particular.
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