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As I Cross the Bartholomew County Line Last Saturday Night
lightning bug streaks
illuminate my windshield, July nights
winding home, slow down
bone glow of tombstones, soon moonglow
the earth sips the sky, red wine sun
bobbing lower and...
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Spade
Seeking garden-depth,
he worked from dawn to
soilful night on two knees
torn with age and troubling
thoughts of roots misplaced,
forgotten-lost in the sly coin
unfound within time’s hands
now...
