Summer Field
Probably I made the sag in the barbwire
where anyone could get through to the field,
summers after the rancher moved the sheep off
to better grazing. I got there when the wild rye and brome
was high and the crickets swung too heavy for the yellow fray,
not caring when their catapult levered my arms and chest.
I collapsed on the dry stocks that gave way to my . . .
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