The Long Telegram

Like Rome, Except Buried

Three barns dotted the so subtle hill
between the house and pasture.

Those lineal shacks, so thoroughly
scattered over time and place,
they had a long stay.

On one long day, we buried the barns.
We flung their fibrous ribs and legs,
their innards: a deco flower in oils,
some signage said Cockright
for County Commissioner, and grandpa’s

old wood and only pitchfork
into sowed and drawn down clay
red and burgeoning at its edge.

I never crossed out
beyond those carved furrows
before we tilled them under.