poems by Rena J. Mosteirin

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Thursday, April 7, 2016

The Lineup

The cows lined up for the funeral: they’re facing the fire department.
Match your voice to the lowing—it’s all lines and breaks—
crash, crack and cow sounds squiggle the field.
Sing the cow hymn. No. You’re out of tune
your chemistry is off, singing is physics—
can’t you hear yourself? This is terrible—
make some calculations. If you tried to build a car
the way you approach music, it would not go.
At the start of the winter they drove a truck over the pond,
declared it safe: so much for the music of the rules. No weight.
Today the cows line up facing the fire department.
They know a man went through the ice. They know.

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