De-fencing

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De-fencing


Not a sword but a T-post, blade sunk 

deep not in stone but North Georgia 


drought that may as well be. If I manage 

to dislodge it I will not be king 


but one finger closer to freeing the field

from the rusted grip of the old


fence. It’s late October, air thin 

enough to believe in myths


that slice to pare the bone from all

that's summer-soft. All hail 


the shaggy neck of fields

uncollared, the dog set free to wander


off, the wait for that late-evening

return at last unleashed to be 


love, scratching at the back door

crowned in grass-spur and spittle.


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