Poet & Thief

Copper Cu, 29

Their fields were full of stones,
the fence wove its way In and out

of hollows, through scrub trees.
I liked the cows best,

their shy eyes and how
when you milked them, they stood so still,

just a tail whip now and then,
the warm milk spitting into a tin pail.

Their world,
soft and malleable.

Like the copper my great-grandfather mined,
Like the bread on the table,

Like the fire in the sauna
if it was Saturday.

Like my body, hardwired, a conductor
of heat and electricity.

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