Ron Androla

hay & rain & impossible
mud, the old barn breathes
like a horse close
to death. Damp black wood
is a womb of bats,
they hum in shadows,
above my pitchfork


the smell of cow-shit right
where the back of the mind ends,
past the libraries of candlelight,
into a room which might
not be a room but feels like one
& there's a sound of a river
& chills in yr skin


one eternal strand of barbed-wire
is lined with clear ice

it is morning

frosted grass cracks
under my long walks


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