by Gregory McGreevy

Carry with you a thousand miles of rusted fence.
Slurry upland and rest
by the prickly
holly nest
grazing on the leeward
of changing hills’
dwindling roots.

It’s shadow, memory,
as shadows are
hiding the face,
avoiding stepdads,
metallic clink,
fork on plate,
amplified in quiet rooms.
In lucid daydreams

the dirty water
fills the potholes
every winter, we
embrace like a 
Goodnight kiss, saying,
Does it mean anything if
cows are happy

when the veiny storm clouds
settle above in bulbous purple
expanse,
when this town’s muddy ditches
are just one year
deeper?