Featured Poem 1/1/05
Fresh asphalt repeatedly interrupts
this small cake-producing nation.
We are confused by the currency
about to be handed back,
the hotel clerk's sign-in motion.
What of their navy?
These cows like raindrops
but love the hand that feeds them.
Their traditional headgear squeaks.
We will leave this place as we entered,
over the frosted hills.
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