FARM HANDS

We keep the old alive,
youthful in our minds
so clouded with time

we cannot find the facts
anymore—all the young
questions that can’t

imagine old wrecks
as useful, the flathead
Fords and rusty relics

in a designated row
behind a grove of fruit trees—
boneyards marking

a feeling of many
shoulders at night lifting
a much slower wheel.

 

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