[This is a poem i wrote many, many years ago about the place i grew up]
This place is something I know
something without abstraction that I can
comprehend with only
my eyes.
This thing, a low flat sheet of rough cement that
casts no shadow from the dull light of this sky,
an island of man-made rock amidst mud and thriving weeds.
Structures like these, places like this, leave behind
remnants not ruins.
This is the complete absence of mystery,
the complete knowledge of a place,
a rectangle, cement, and patches of rust,
followed by furrows, nearly straight,
plowed, dirt turned by the
same man.
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