No Cows To Look At
No cows to look at
I hear the truck traffic
Everything changes like clouds
The page this poem is on burns
Coming from the funeral with friends
Talking on the telephone
No trucks to grind their gears
I hear the minute hand moving
Birds and people inhabit the earth
A black bear inhabits the earth, too
A rock in the sun
Calligraphy brush
In a mind there is apocalypse
No one can hear it
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