Small farmer’s lament

I miss your mess of grey white hair

Your tufted stretch of leather,

over taught warm muscle.

I miss the deep tearing mouthfuls of grass

Chewing like a typewriter cartridge on elastic strings of slobber

Your super tongue, feeling, like a handful of fingers.

 

You were running for fun

Drumming the soil with half ton hooves

with high kick flicks and snorts.

We saw you as dusk raised a magic moon

and mist lost your numbers in a slow drift swoon.

 

I miss your eyes, your dark crystal skies

Etched with shadows and lined with long lashes

To keep off the splashes

of shit, sometimes smeared by your friends

A green grey stain, waiting for the rain to restore

Your soft cheeks.

Your black ears cocked and swept

Like folded felt shells

Seaching for warnings,

fore and aft.

When all else is peace

Quiet great masses slumped together

Stretched sacks of stomach, digesting,

And steaming at dawn

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