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Four
hours
from
November

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Factories flicker in the Rust Belt of America

Windmills tremble above
cornfields

Motels

spoon feed Americans neon

Birds flee the
kickstart
of machinery

Churches sit on the sins of a Country

Farmhouses

sift in the wind
barn doors beg for oil
the scarecrow post is empty as
Christ’s crucifix

crumble along
the Erie canal, and
the prayers of the manufacturing class go unanswered

Factories

Small Towns

drown
in the deep end
of the country

Cities

like shifting hens,
hatch
white
plastic
grocery
sacks

People

play bit parts
to the
cigarettes

Churches

taken straight

Machinery

without a filter

Money

in our lungs

Welcome to America