Thursday, March 10, 2011

Fence. Are poems fence-sitters?

If they fall, do they crack never to be put back in a semblance of whole? Their edited seams inside-out and showing.

Or contraband?


Fence-sitting foods? Are these ones which straddle time. Soup and/or salad for breakfast. Pancakes and/or eggs for dinner. And of course, pizza always and especially breakfast. The latter quite contraband.

1 comment:

  1. Target Practice

    This older woman visited us
    packing heat
    her hat all crazy and black felt
    rim around a sweaty afternoon
    So we watched as she shot cans
    down
    First time I tried it
    It was a wild cocked-back hand
    and loud songs over the field
    Not sure I hit anything
    Not sure if I am even right
    about this story
    She was older though
    I know that much

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