The Barn
is settling.
Body splayed,
exposure and rot
cushion its slide
into mulch.
A gaping hole
along the western face
of the roof, bleeds
ragged
like an exit wound.
Whole pieces of sky
make their way
inside
whistling
and burning…
On grey days,
I hear a lowing,
the groan of wood
bending,
the slow sigh
of decomposition.
Goats,
undisturbed,
perch
on cut-outs of hard-packed dirt
that extend from trails
lengthening
along the open cheek of the hill
like scars.
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