Summer Field

Probably I made the sag in the barbwire

where anyone could get through to the field,

summers after the rancher moved the sheep off

to better grazing. I got there when the wild rye and brome

was high and the crickets swung too heavy for the yellow fray,

not caring when their catapult levered my arms and chest.

I collapsed on the dry stocks that gave way to my . . .

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