The Modern World by John Dowell

An alien architecture 
has sprung up in the field next to the barn.
Herefords rub against it, 
leaving brown tufts of fur.
I feel like one of those cows
who walks through an archway and is transported 
to the streets of New York,
where it trots around looking for a saltlick 
or a cedar tree
to lie under 
and chew its cud.
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