the grass is covered with the crust of sycamore;
it must be growing again,
stretching, splitting
unable to be contained
and though nothing is wrong,
I feel so helpless--
its tender bark lying in fragments around me.
A little left of the abandoned
airstrip, now just a sunburned
avenue of grass, Waterman's Rock
commands the landscape
with a loneliness twice
as large as its house.
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