Beyond the stubblefields,
between the sumac and the lean-to shed,
and beside the rusting plow
a compost heap --
dung, straw, gourds, stalks, leaves --
squats on a flat of ice and mud.
Fragrant smoke rises just so far.
New snow reaches and blankets the ground.
Lord, open my lips -- and my white breath ascends
just so far before it disappears
and snow falls past my teeth and tongue,
our corporate prayer,
a mass, an open grave.
1.1.10
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