Fresh asphalt repeatedly interrupts
this small cake-producing nation.

We are confused by the change
about to be handed back to us,
the hotel clerk’s sign-in motion.

What of their navy?
The 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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