North Dakota Elegy

In that wind, I pulled my blanket in to me,
the edges of it beat against my legs.
Above, clouds germinated over
grey-grass hills, hiding the land line.
The finality of a grave is hard to see.
Dirt piled on wood and bones.
I wished to see a sapling, budding blue,
or even a prairie fire in all that space.

— Marlon Footracer

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Filed under Poetry, Vol 2 Issue 1

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