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Jo McInerney

Wheat Country

We travel all day through old irrigation towns. Wheat towns huddled on single rail-lines, their silos unmanned, their pubs closed. Dust drifts into the car, its taste thick in our mouths. Once we see a girl, pushing a pram. She does not look up as we go by. The sky turns gold as we drive toward sunset.

hard frost
a shining man
in the moon