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