The crops are safe, though

No cryptic message here,

Only elasticity,

A focus so narrow;

The lines bend and blend together

On the days where only an occasional engine is fired up

and the rest of the world is on a vacation ,

Hanging above white sand in a hammock,

                                                                 hat pulled over their eyes like a sleeping cowboy.

There is a mild smell of sulfur in the air,

and the recitation of scripture is aglow and

                                                                                                           very, very real.

Followed by the echoes and certainly by

 the explosions of geysers in national parks,

 the explosions of geysers in national parks,

Posturing for something more real, then a tourist wearing a sweaty visor.

A buzzing of winged insects…

A plague is upon us,

The crops are safe through

The crops are safe though,

When hyphens replace all other forms of punctuation,

and the sound of thunder threatens the heavens and the earth

but never really makes an appearance,

A hallmark;

A bookmark;

A certain salvation

Signed  and left (for dead)

 

In a box, topped with a red flag,

Topped with a  red fire,

                                on the very edge of the property line,

on the very end of the galaxy,

on the very edge of the ocean,

The fire visible for miles, for eons even.

Burning resolutely,  like an archangel in exodus,

Like a string of holiday lights,

Left hanging a little too long.

 

 

 

 

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