 |
Brin owns an ink pen that writes in four colors: red,
black, blue and green. He tore a page from his notebook
and left it on the couch. Printed in red, it read:
White wooden fences with fresh paint,
look like a wall. Strong, bold, they enclose.
Tall rough wood ones, tan or dark brown,
look soft, but are sturdy. Simply
separate, don’t enclose or push
out, but divide. Stone walls are as
if the house and town were built well
afterwards, as ordained by the rocks.
Stones care nothing for town, or house.
Brick walls are a house that wants
to be a road. Confused, longing.
Leftover bricks wandered from the house,
but didn’t venture into the street.
They do nothing but brood. Chicken
wire keeps in animals. It teases,
made mostly of air, but works,
sweats as much as anything. Chain
links don't enclose at all. They push
out—keep out. The town and road puts
chain link up to keep far away
from the house. House not safe from town.
Town safe from house.
|
|
|
|
|
