Sticks in a Fence
The fence’s sticks, like strings subdued,
forlorn, and tacked down in a row.
There’s much you know of solitude.
Of wings, what do you know?
The straws of wheat don’t miss the ears
that heard and were heard too.
You’re faceless. Unastonished. Fears –
this lattermath chilled through.
These lean, long years your bony shanks,
waiting, locked in leas.
Burls in palms, heels in mud-banks.
You don’t have any knees.
- Date June 23, 2015
- Tags Sticks in a Fence