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concrete rivers

bridges traversing open, rolling seas;

brown-green grass and hay-bale yellow,

scraggy trees and pickup trucks.

each gas station is alike to the rest, each

red pump and

beer for sale

each

rusting faucet and

shelves of cigarettes.

here is a grove of old farmhouses and mobile homes. 

the fenceposts lead into eternity;

this is a special kind of purgatory.

 

i am nose-to-the-glass, or

unsettled indifference.

cow, i point—

that's our game, our

roadtrip pastime, though here:

points are far too easy to come by.

(maybe we should switch to counting tractors.)

timeless expanses and 

rolling, similar fields.

there's cotton, there, 

clouds cast in miniature among the brown stalks,

and, squinting, can i see the ghosts of the people wronged?

(how many points for that sheep?

how many for a race's dignity?)

 

this is a special kind of purgatory

one in which i am a stranger

passerby, migratory bird:

bright feathers, exotic, flying

past sparrows on fences,

home to my concrete trees and

shopping malls.

this is a haunted universe,

but who am i to judge it?

who am i to judge the people who sleep

beneath those graves,

in yonder church after

church after

church, 

nestled among the cornfields?

 

(i am but a stranger, and cannot know their lives.

yet, with feather-eyed opinions,

i will be glad to return home.)

 

 

 

~~~~~

aka the southeast countryside terrifies me in a guttural way and i cannot help it please forgive me it's all cowfields and republicans hhhhh

 

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okay I have some respect for the southeast countryside seeing as I live there but I love how you wrote this?

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I love this poem and its imagery. (Also I've lived in the southeast countryside all my life and I still feel terrified by it.)  

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