Blood Horizon
Farm necks
thick as bales of hay
burnt like the earth
weather veined hands-gathering eggs
Farm necks
tough as desert wood
dusk until dawn
three generations under one leaky roof.
Withering acres of parched hope
Old Testament humble
barn cat stubborn.
Starry thunder is rumbling over the blood horizon
searching the mud room for your war boots.
Uncle Sam is coming
armed with pink slips and fists of black powder.
Copyright © Anthony Biaanco | Year Posted 2019
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