Andrew Jarvis Ingrained Pillow wheat, it wakens underneath overalls and field boots, beaten by the harvesting dredge of a man in sweat, sun beating down his setting. It is summer, and he holds a scythe, slicing heads with curvaceous blade to make a maelstrom of land mattress, to quake folds of fibrous gold. He molds a pot of arms, reaching into riches, his horde of heavy work. He refuses to rinse fingers, instead fitting his wealth, germinated.
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