we are the same
by Marcel Aime Duclos

beyond the locked stockade fence
across the wilted tobacco field
on the surface of the shrinking pond
through the dry pine forest
the evening sun turned crimson–
purplish-red in its shame

yes
ashamed
for having quaffed
the last drops of moisture
for having wrung
the sweetness out of the grasses
for having fried
the earth into a blanket of ash

yes
ashamed
for having looked away
eyes parched
head bowed crimson
this side of the fence



 

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