A beetle crawls through an empty
field sustained by whatever’s
crawling in the dirt. It tears them open
with its mandibles and pulls
the insides into itself.
Birds fly over looking for it
but they cannot see so easily,
their perfect eyes won’t rotate
in their heads. The farmer
kept a row of tents full
of various odds and ends,
but mostly hanging blades
and stalks of weed.
Conversations were had out there
around controlled burns of overgrowth
justified to keep the land clear.
You tell them what they want to hear,
and in the limelight of a crescent moon
the smoke around the statue makes it
look like it can follow with its eyes.

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