twilight

An old man, a farmer
starts his truck, beneath
his dirtied carhardtt and his leathery
chest skin makes a face reminiscent of
haybails and in the sunshine
everybody grows.
His wife also smiles
her beauty has dripped away
like an icicle.
In smiling you can
see a house of broken windows
has been built inside of her.
And now cows too drip in the mornings
and anytime there is
soft spoken age,
computers are then faceless and useless
here where there are crickety floors.
Decrepid houses cry with the chipping paint
and slowly, as the days go by like trains,
sex then, dwindles with age
they wonder how golden honeymoons occur
and morning after morning
the quest for night is eternal
maybe unwanted like grasses or blurry turbines
of loud airplanes flying above them.
Grow again, enchanted evenings
under the carrot patch
where memories of milk jugs and sawhorses
remain still intact somewhere
in the deep down brown dirt.
The farmer's wife still flourishes in her kitchen
still wondering if the potatoes have
grown too far past their harvest date
or if the shadows of conception
have too far faded.