Between the gun and the thumb
rest
I imagine there’s a slit window
and a rasping wind
Where a spade spread us part like
my father
And his dirt.
The straining flower beads twenty
years away
Boot against those tomatoes the
red dirt
Where he buried himself and his
dirt.
The lug knee lowered the brought
edge deep
Into a cantilevered root parallel
to some
Inexhaustible hardness like coal
or dirt
And the clay by Indian Creek near
Hillcrest was never harsh-wet or
Everyone would but a contract had
been arranged by my father
For his dirt.
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