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POETRY BOOK ONE: Poems People Like to Silently Move Their Lips While Reading
Cowtales

The cows are trained by repetition
And leave the barn first thing each day
To gather ‘round the morning hay
Pitchforked from the loft;
One by one they drift off
South into the field
As though drawn by something at the other end
Or intuition
They scatter far apart yet tend
To face all the same way
Until midday,
When suddenly each turns around
Like some great magnet’s had its poles reversed
Forcing inscrutable atoms to yield
And follow the first
Back across the field
Northbound;
So that by dusk they’ve all come back
Attracted to the evening snack
I feed them to keep their habits intact
And to sustain my superstition.

|| My Poetry ||