Fence
each day battles a fence
between the trivial and the vivid.
something filmy, frosted with haze.
and yet it must be cut--
with truth of touch or tongue.
otherwise it is glue on songbirds;
rheumatoid to sweet pleasures
cast from the sun.
i sharpen my words
against a whetstone of years.
i strive to make my senses pencils.
somewhere nearby
something lovely is describable.
perhaps lonely.
it’s so quick, though,
how we age within calendar squares.
shadows creep out of bed,
half-formed bureaucrats,
stretching their dingy cellophane
across the dawn.
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5/15 .. Several word changes
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