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The Corn Fields of Iowa
Sun drenched dancers and their all too dark ballet flats
kiss the grey cement with their tip toes
bleeding red kool-aide onto the chalk smeared sidewalk
Running into the heat of the blackness
jumping into the grey-blue sky as the thunder cracks
where the inspiration of dance never dies
Touch the orange half circle, breath the sweet air - go on, breath it in
and succumb to the setting moon in reverse
you’ll only have to wait for the dancers
Wait for the phone to ring on your marble table
while the rest of us run through the corn fields
and Iowa will never be the same when you leave it behind
Follow the dancers into shady fields of six feet stalks;
when you try to breath nothing will come of it
unless you jump above the height - good luck - and overcome the corn field.
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