Once language exists only to convey
information, it is dying…
Richard Hugo, The Triggering Town.
The bank’s vault, loaded with
the once friendly girls
and cash, dropped off
the map last night.
Men in black suits
were seen on the outskirts
of town, snuggling our tomorrows.
Hymnals fled out of state,
passing young and virtuous
fields of sweet air.
We went home for our axes,
broke open the safe
for anything legally ours,
but by time we got there,
the metal hummed
a train’s sad whistle.
The corn grew back taller
in its sweet time,
produced sons and daughters –
though our wives
had run off with any moon
or star that would have them.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 2.
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