Wednesday, January 2, 2013

The Barn Roof



We could touch the sky on top of Kansas peaks.
The slope of silvery, slivery
peaks, gave feet and hands that seek
grips to scale the heights, quivering
muscles, weak, like a sparrow in grip
of barn owl, hiding in the loft
of barn rafters, tied in rope, a noose,
a swing to span bales of hay, we were Tarzan
in the dust motes, drifting in the light slices,
pouring from the maw of the barn.  Mountain
climbers, birds perched, at the apex, set to fly
only in our dreams we could launch our bird
bodies skyward. Drifting in and out of hazy banks
of clouds.  Freedom from words of ripped pants, frayed
shirts, and shingle pieces embedded in a child's skin.



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