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Don Thompson



These hills have nothing to lose.
Dead grass could smolder for a week

and they’d shrug it off—
indifferent to fire, drought, grazing.

Dementia of fence posts stripped of barbwire
that don’t know which way to lean.

The sun’s dim and unfocused through smoke.
Distances close in, claustrophobic,

and in this burning world,
everything blurs into everything else.

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