Barbed wire always looks like sun shower glitter
when the sun is out.
Authorized personnel only
dotting the links in pocket square efficiency
with a dribble of regularity on top
to nudge without threat of death
suggested in scream tones.
The birds have no problem,
landing, gripping, hopping to and fro.
I do.
Watch the sun swim through
and pour itself into the grass and clouds.
If I had carpet gloves, maybe?
Carpet hands. Stone hands.
How little of a shit
am I for not mounting a raid?
Box cutter? Bolt cutter? Twin contrarotating saw!
Gas torch? Spoon? Fingernails? Let's go underground!
Shoot the links out with hyper accuracy.
Secret agent man! Double oh double oh.
A world wide tortoise towing a planet through space!
An aphid lands on my hand.
Walk quietly toward my wrist.
Sniff the sandwich crust still nibbled.
The weather's been alright lately.
The clouds interesting while taking lunch.
I've been told there are thing out there.
I don't buy it.
Everyone talks shit over the radio.
I don't buy it.
It always looks like new rain atop the fence. Glitter.
If I walk away, people will die. People I will not meet.
I believe it, mosquito. I believe it, dandelion. I believe it, clover.
At Hokr Landing, there is a fence that says
"authorized personnel only."
One of the best power stations the country has known.
I've seen one person working here, chimney swift.
Don't quote me on that.
Reversing sections of its grid
can turn her into a fusion device.
Have you seen a sunrise at midnight at the equator?
Leaving Hokr Station
never.
Winter would come early. The sun would still rise, but bumble bee,
all of the flowers would die if she ran unattended
and poisoned the troposphere and winds
like an oroboros's icy sigh.
All of us sleeping in her snow,
far worse than a sunrise bathing our beds in its soul
while we dream of a beach and a sea in the fields
inside the fences
at Hokr Landing Station
