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Michael Lavers

Long way home,
a dark field outside Butte,
me and this duck.

Families and roads.
A mile, a mile, a mile, and
at dusk a new house.

Wind drives down
the mountain. Wheat dances
down the valley.

Cold car won’t start.
Puffs of breath
from the cow’s mouth.

Here to Ontario,
three days of grain. I sleep on
the crust of so much bread.

Wheat cracks in the cold,
and no more mosquitoes.
Snow in August.

Snowflakes freckle your
long dark hair. Your woman’s shape
cuts lines in the air.

One more thing about
home:
Even the beds smell like dog.