Two men at work talks about iron
with gust and credulity unknown
to me. Last night's rain rusts away.
The flowers of summer leave a trail
to the stream, to the West of the city.
The residue of the clouds pass by
the delta of the labour hard hands.
The river gurgles, "There is a tectonic
Yet we build. Iron. Hands. Sun. Sweat beads.
Published on April 17th, 2023
©TheCaliforniaPoppyTimesNews. All rights reserved.