it is all so flat here,
so lone and level, so lovely,
so dead and dying, such small
and twisted grasses and
nibbling jumping creatures,
flying swooping birds with
bloody beaks and objectionable cries.
it is all so flat here and
news rarely sparks and
when it does it catches into the grass,
then half the state is up in news.
I don’t know why people live here,
perhaps because,
for some reason or another,
they are dead and dying,
small and twisted,
screaming their rage out over the plains
and hoping to be understood.

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