Portrait of a Cow’s Head

The walls buckle down into their rooms,
breached and cracked under age,
crippled sons of the groundwork and
an unnatural yawning
of the rooves whose wounds pour light
on ruined floors
 
Those timbers of the ’40s,
built with nails of the ’20s and
hands of 1890,
still hand to those foundations
and soak there in their rot,
unburied,
but died some time ago
unnoticed

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