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 stories


that slice to reveal the raw beneath

what's summer-soft. All hail 


the shaggy neck of fields

uncollared, the dog set free to wander


off, the wait, the weight, the late-

evening return at last unleashed to be   


love crowned in grass-spur and spittle.


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