July, sprawling

Not every thought is harmonious, dredged rivers
seldom yield the same sludge, for each season
there is a new drain on the landscape, furrows
forming rivulets in each storm, thunderous applause
like angels slapping wings respiring, garlic
infused, blowing over Adam’s corpse, venial pardons
plowed like the compromising till, the corn fields
in July, sprawling.

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