THAT BUCOLIC FEEL
The country, the horrific country
The abject pasture
with its foul lakes, the awful
copses, knolls, the putrid
vale a brooklet
slashes through
The appalling hillside
festers autumn colors with
a sick abandon
And a bird chisels
a violent chevron
in the vault
I left me there
in the revolting pastoral
I oozed that mud
and sickened myself
on a filthy vista by a tree
I rotted in the daylight
with everything the wind
could put its soiled
fingers on
until my body was a heap
of scum, another
fetid hummock
in the liquid sun
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