Wednesday, January 1, 2020


The Fence

I want to be in a story where the good guys win in the end
Where the words get smudged by tears
But you can still make out what they mean.

I like when there is a line break between paragraphs,
Wide margins down the sides of text like promenades
Where I can leisurely stroll, leave my scraps 
Of inscrutable insight for whoever reads it next.

Better yet, to remain frozen in a poem
That few will ever read
Like a fly in yellow amber
Buried in the ground
Or lost on a dusty museum shelf.
Either way, a form permanently captured.

In a poem, no one ever wins.
The good guys end up sort of bad
According to the rules of enjambment
And the bad guys just melt
Into amorphous puddles of metaphor.


Free verse was always the doom of us.  
The delusion we could create something
Outside the boundaries of rhythm or rhyme.

This is just a blind grasping 
At the unbroken fence of time.
Prose was always just a way to imagine what was on the other side
While all these written verses are the casualties of the clutching:
The scraped knuckles, the splintered hands,

The valorous, timeless attempts 
To conjure a world without a fence.


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