Poem

Scenes in the Country

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The mowing drones the heat is just about enough to rust if you spell it reluctantly as your handwriting slams into amnesia. August half passes in a slow procession of cobwebs whose negligence unravels in your hands like dust. The results are exhausting. And that was the music of the countryside last year. Slippery as the first pills of night or clouds. There was no procès verbal.