I smell clover.
The purple white bursts
of pollen,
of summer heat,
and sour wheat,
chest high
and seas deep.
Thrashing cricks
that claw between
mounds of mulch
that clamor on
atop the gulch
of brethren fallen
to white veins.
We’d open floodplains
and one of the neighbors many sons
would trudge the swamp
and erase the floods we’d done.
. . .
And on the boat,
on bone dry land
we’d hunt.
We’d rend the dipping sun.
We’d run and run
from boots in mud.
Dripping blood across my hands,
snare heart drum
Doing laps over the lands.
. . .
Yeah I know we had
our opposites,
feuding bands,
bountiful rocks,
spacely plans,
separate plots.
My memories
amplify
the waves of heat.
Can’t tell the difference between clay and cleet.
The things we share
in thorns and rust,
the windy stare
of devil’s dust.
The devils snare
of shit rose glass
and small town fairs.
Quaint until
you’re working there.
. . .
We did not all get
all we want.
Would what we want
have been enough?
Image: mikhail kryshen
acraein 