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The Plough Ian Burr You swing the car darkward wanting to peel from the lit road. A pink moon swims Over witching fields, You want to watch. It stuck like bad fruit from the mousebreathing of knee-length mist Not the quick beat of the vehicle's, tracking shot; A short October Framed in the glass of the driver's door. Behind us the woods crackle with rain and Babayaga. It is only ten But the world Goes medieval In the lack of light, Only Coventry, Flaring orange, As if it ghosted with fires. Is our beacon now. You want the glow to slowly fade Leaving your hands Ink before you. I turn starward, Hunting the plough, Find only your hair. |