I think I'm gonna submit poetry to the New Yorker until they beg me to stop



Applachian spring chills
as sinking sun wins thin 


old temptations grow new

gratitude rolls bold 

as a rusted skate key


wind keeps up beat 

shrubs and scrubs alight

a herd of brood mares

rides in 


turn down tone 

down slow goes 

and all we know

we know as

ours to behold 

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