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Poetry of Issue #8        Page 77

Flood

The archipelago of green highway signs
floats below my shuddering sheep.
Will my ramshackle ark remain unbroken?

My crops have already drowned.
The verdant tips of my dead turnips
are seaweed to this shallow ocean.

Even my rusty tractor, its red metal drifting
half-submerged,
migrates to the sunset’s city.

  Aaron Morris