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Fences


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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.



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post #233
bio: john ball
perma-link
4/10/2008
09:27

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April - National Poetry Month 2008

Category List
Angels
April - National Poetry Month 2005
April - National Poetry Month 2007
April - National Poetry Month 2008
April - National Poetry Month 2009
Blather
Blather
Correspondence
Demons
February Smackdown!
Here, I'm trying to be Funny
My personal favorites
Novel Excerpts
Random Memoir Fragment



Previous Posts
Please Support My Run in the NYC Marathon
A Fortunate Age (trailer)
Albums. Landlines. Square television.
I don't love anything, not even Christmas
My favorite place in the world
How do you Plea?





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