Kathleen Hellen

3 Poems

Hoof and nail, standing

Mailboxes hint
there’s a living to be made in idle chewing—
                 the dappled-

cream and spotted, black—none too fancy,
none so different that
I think of taking on a path

going elsewhere but along these fields and pastures
stitched with trees and hidden
driveways, the grass
oblivious to fences.

A barn door opens. Hay makes hay. I make up colors:
graymarine pearledblue palesence.

See how the vane’s a fickle swiveling?

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