In the doting farm,
new chicken wire is born.
I stole my solitude
from the arms of a child.
A facet of womanhood
flourishes among the corn,
abundant and cheap.
I have never owned my name.
My legs are on lease to me.
Hunting dogs bark,
Searching for their canines.
The rabbits have them,
smile as they wait for the
hungry paws of the unsuspecting farmer.
If you do not eat,
neither will I.
The sheep shear themselves
then snuggle underneath
fleece blankets.
I step to the trough to drink,
crack my face on the water.
Miniature Moon 