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The Odor of Earth

November 16, 2010

— me, circa 1999

It drifts in ditches,
driven like an early snow
down long roads
measured in quarter miles.
Slow bundles
seep through rusty wires,
get ginned into fine thread,
woven into sheets and pillows.
Tired men and hungry women
make quiet love,
dream early dreams
beneath the weight
of hand-sewn counterpanes.
Sun-weary sighs
and the odor of earth
breathe in and out
of the open windows.
A good wind remembers this:
soil is an inheritance
borne gray across the highway,
dissipating fences.

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