How many miles of wire fencing
Line the backyards of America
Is a question with an answer within
Its own bent, sodden, cut pull bindings,

Sort of as when its asked if aluminum has
A natural taste. One ignored by children
As they trespass with jelly sandwiches,
And here as well. Plants on both sides,

And some with edible berries, others
Poisonous, handled by those feathered
With hollow bones, which many reel
Suddenly from. Emptiness of reeds

Hold only the content of their own space,
Tamed into bendy straws for grape soda,
Else shaped into flutes blown in unkempt
Thickets casting an umbrage of half truth.

Only single option- trust yourself like flight,
Letting go of yourself by grasping loosely
With what is played so it can pass below,
With your substance, which isn’t frightful,

It’s the mulled umber after all eventual loss,
A procession of primary colors in the actual
Opaque mixing of secondary penumbra, positive
Negation gained entry larger than you were.

Full robins of summer poke up earth worms
After the funneled rain, from clouds with liquid
Geometrics rather than grated squares. Trunks
Of a hundred year old silver maple, and a nest

Above the yards of four different properties
With as many generations of owners, like
Winds that lift pipes through green leaves
That sway in the time of invisible answers.

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