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The Pasture

  by Christopher DeWeese

  We grow everything to an end,
  and so this life becomes defined
  mostly by what time means
  to its victims.
  We can see them gathering.
  They are all around us,
  Measuring the breath in each hour,
  the profit graphed
  by each pound of feed.
  They bend and carry,
  stripped bare of every designation
  but one common reason,
  which is to grow larger,
  to fill the air with calories
  they do not own.
  Waiting’s many testimonies
  fill the landscape
  in timbered fences
  and the shivered hammocks  
  dead poets portrayed
  their own histrionics in,
  sitting there forever
  above the moving capital
  where cowbells follow
  last year’s horses
  back across the white
  to again be rendered
  and then to be rendered again.
  To Whom it May Concern:
  I have wasted your life
  and the lives of many things
  to deliver you this body,
  to leave you with this spreadsheet
  of personal experience
  multiplied by the imagination.
  On the rotting fences,
  the birds keep commenting
  like a bunch of users.
  In the crooked grass,
  I have found no union
  in all this constant breathing.
  Something long and still
  keeps taking me,
  the way a great meal
  calmly takes your hand
  and leads you past the provenance
  of what you have been eating
  then leaves you
  in a hushed, velvet room,
  where you drink the port
  and update your status
  and wait to feel something.

    Mantis 12

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