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The Plough

by Ian Burr


You swing the car darkward
wanting to peel
from the lit road.

A pink moon swims
Over witching fields,
You want to watch.

It stuck like bad fruit
from the mousebreathing
of knee-length mist

Not the quick beat
of the vehicle's,
tracking shot;

A short October
Framed in the glass
of the driver's door.

Behind us the woods
crackle with rain
and Babayaga.

It is only ten
But the world
Goes medieval

In the lack of light,
Only Coventry,
Flaring orange,

As if it ghosted
with fires.

Is our beacon now.
You want the glow
to slowly fade

Leaving your hands
Ink before you.

I turn starward,
Hunting the plough,
Find only your hair.