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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 © | Year Posted 2019




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