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In a far
corner, glass
opaque and crusty with old manure,
the messy backyard
of the barn's windowsill. Dark. Still,
a gathering place
of the preterite,
for those
used-up,
empty, broken accessories,
containers
of a farmer's life;
During
cleaning time, a place
passed over,
a bit out of reach,
but still too close, to put out of
mind.
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