Day 72 of 100 Poems/100 Days

Balance Beam

White sky, white land,
our bicycles fighting
through the dead fields.

We pedaled up to the farmhouse,
three stories rotting high,
inside dark, as pupils adjust,
then I saw a maze of beams.

We balanced along the rafters,
above the sheep and smell of shit,
cannonballing into the hay.

He showed me his magazines,
with pretty women smiling back,
and the way they folded out
like play things.

I think now about that land,
that house, and those women
under the hay waiting for me.

His sheep probably dead,
the wood still rotting.

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