Curvy, collapsed barns
decay on Rural Route 1.
Rotting mattress and car doors
roost in empty horse stalls.
Grass cut in the pasture makes hay.
But straw’s a hollowed stalk,
good only for warmth or bedding.
With land or money the impulse
for murder is straightforward,
like a monarch to milkweed,
but the untamable heart knows
what it wants only after, just
as a poorly crafted saddle
makes for a testy horse.