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Because I come and go I find myself Shaped like an acorn Or the brotherly similes of curved brown furrows With a blue tractor upon them Not the blue of skies Far from it Rather the bruised blue of the Madonna in a church in summer Where candles flicker The simple brown cap of the acorn belies monkish self confession of crimes of passion Non-existent When measured against the earth After the tractor is rust discarded along the brushy fence row Weeds and small trees Grow to the machine As if around an accident witnessed by no one |