Fences
Taylor Graham

Listen to the murmur of the fence-crew
speaking lightly as they wield chainsaw,
shovel, hammer. There’s rhyme in all
their consonants and vowels, their soft
brown eyes. On the other side, the forest
speaks a green tongue of moss and lichen,
leaves in season, a universe evolving
outward, pushing against our fences,
our bounds of land ownership and law.
These languages we can’t quite understand.

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