how many seasons of grass
wound in spokes
and rusted rims
hollow hubs
where once-black grease
clung thick with odor
silent row of iron tines
rarely now do children come
to sit upon the high-raised seat
a long un-coupled hitch
settled into earth
gear and lever seized into a curiosity
poplars have taken back the fields—
when you slit the bark with fingernail
you loose a scent like fresh-cut hay
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