on heading north


you think that i am strong
like weathered posts in wet grass
sunk deep and true against the years
but i confess that i never meant to be here
limbless and blinded
barefoot and broken and turning to bone

realizing that i am several miles gone
not in the direction that i meant to take
and with the insult of gravel upon my face
i pretend it is not the dark prairie
which kisses me to sleep
but the farming wife
two leagues south
and i am landed
and feeling


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