by M. Bennett
The Osage Orange hedgerow
torn utterly from its foundation.
Only a few mangled, lemon-curry roots
lay exposed against darkest soil.
The mile-long sentry against
wind and erosion dislodged from its
WPA-appointed post with
industrial efficiency.
The dustbowl a
distant abstraction.
I still drive the road
widened into the void.
The striated, serpentine bark
of the gnarled trees,
yellowed hedge apples decaying
beneath bowed, unkempt branches,
as clear still, clearer even,
than the emptiness just
beyond the throw of the headlights.
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