Farm Poem #23

Was it you who
Hung a gate with
No fence and
Latched it closed,

Guarding only grass
And July heat?
Something told me
I should ask.

We’ve passed in
Our cars of course,
As close to talking
As often occurs—

Each feeling
The anxious space
Of un-gardens,

And that voice,
Insisting we complete
What we don’t know
Why we started.

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