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The six-story
water cylinder
mildew'd grey white
against green fresh hills
is not spilling
is life itself
and is not a secret

For those on four limbs here
some ghostly from war, or birth deformity
all hold our field of forced eyes,
impose the terror of plastics breaking
a pitchfork's staff
humming from a stab
stark weapon on the grain sack mound
it's stuck in, a cattle doorway rippling
with ten billion
leaves it looks out upon