Thoughts Like Strip-mines
Matthew Haughton

Someday I’ll forget the name for bees that hollow homes
in barn wood. Gone with them will be the name for birds
that nest on the ground, just as uncanny unnamed.
What will remain is a sense of things: wild brush running
over a stone, the breaking light cascading a creek bed.
After I’m worked, let my last thoughts crop as yearnings
kinder to me.

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