Short Days

Peter Engen

they're cutting down rows of corn at the knees
separating pieces of gold
from outgrown garments
gathering seed and
leaving thin feathered battlefields

my father’s soft eyes resting in a buried oak box
coffined long enough that I've
completely forgotten the sound of his voice
only words remain in quiet corners
like a farmers almanac
fingertipped from the shelf

the sun
just an orange lozenge now
melting inside the hollow mouth of night

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