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THE DIRT RIDDLES Tell me, what are the women and men? Weeds without roots to bind them. The houses? Helmets for the horizon. And the plows?Teeth of the marching armies who drag their appetites like sacks, the field a bed where the living and dead bump bones in passing. The cow? Heart of a greater creature. What happened to her years of milk? Femurs for dogs to gnaw, pitchforks dressing in flies again. The graves? All coffins into bonnets. The flowers and grass going wild, thistle rising where people walk? Mold to leaven the children’s bread.  ...

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