A Few Lines

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A FEW LINES


In mostly pleasant places, these

boundary lines of mine, 


if increasingly, of late, showing more true 

to their root—to bind—than, say,


to bound, like a deer, if you catch

what I'm nosing toward here. 


You get the gist: never more

sure it’s the other hue you want 


than after this one’s on the wall,

the last exit glistening with clean


restrooms a quarter-mile

past the sign. Just another voice


joining the bawl

of the neighborhood dogs 


checking out each other's digs

at the end of the drive, collars uncharged


and tethered to a freedom

we can't escape from.


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