Carry with you a thousand miles of rusted fence.

Slurry upland and rest

by the prickly

holly nest

grazing on the leeward

of changing hills’

dwindling roots.

It’s shadow, memory,

as shadows are

hiding the face,

avoiding stepdads,

metallic clink,

fork on plate,

amplified in quiet rooms.

In lucid daydreams

the dirty water

fills the potholes

every winter, we

embrace like a

goodnight kiss, saying,

Does it mean anything if

cows are happy

when the veiny storm clouds

settle above in bulbous purple


when this town’s muddy ditches

are just one year


GREGORY McGREEVY lives and writes poetry in Baltimore, Maryland. His work has previously been featured in West Trade Review, The Finger Literary Journal, Bourgeon Online, and The Northern Virginia Review, among others.