talks of a land with few lovers.
The fence line
straight down the hill,
the dark green of pine trees
cover the opulent lie
of sown grass
on slick slope.
A big cabbage tree
nicks the horizon, sentinel
that’s shed
a million seeds.
I pass
at open road speed,
forced to turn
my neck once, then again
to find that tree
on the bare bulging hill.
Cut with a fence line
that spreads like a scar
in the last light. Myself,
a farmer’s son
who has cut and killed
more than most.