The poetry is half gone
when I attempt the word.
It’s all hearsay now,
But, like a disciple, I listen,
And reach for the dictionary
Scroll the forefinger down
The letters one by one to find
Not this, this.
I’m this animal outside
The fence, poking a claw
Between the openings and cracks,
Is the word “dream,” or “wake up”?
This language is a chain link fence,
And I am legless.
