Fence Line

The matted grass so dense the fencepost
I hammer rings jerking
from the peen, waving
like a stormborne mast

until at last it punches through
the clang turned to thud
soft and unresisting
wounding the hillside

Weak now, my hands
ache as I stretch them
in their rotten gloves
twisted and black like river trees

Away over my shoulder
my ricket fence line trails the hills
uncertain, stapling the plain

so when I finish this
I must start again lest
it keep out nothing
let in  everything.


The Daily Post: Tour Guide

Don't just stand there.