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"untitled" issue
december 2002
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terry provost
Guide-dog Barking at Invisible Fence
Barking at me about inaudible whistles,
bomb-sniffers, and
seeing-eye dogs, the German Shepherd
sketched on the sign for the invisible fence
guides me past the paltry encumbrances of my senses as I rubber-sole
around the neighborhood
The blind must believe
in a world they may remember but cannot
see, even when, as with the fence,
there is nothing for the furry four-footed
extensions of their eyes
to perceive.
Early autumn, and the chirp-throated Tremont trees, bird-hotels, are like behemoth
musical flowers of colorflamed leaves.
Locked in their tabled truckwood, a unsawn lecture on natural history and the
Grained annular geometry of living
growing-seasons; even the seeming freedom
of flight exacts a compensating
loss: flowers pollinated by birds having no perfume
because they have no sense of smell.
Clad in styrofoam
new construction, the first frost only weeks away,
a house, a home hints at the
disposable warmth of fast-food coffee cups.
Flowering vines plait through rusted chainlink near the Lava Lounge across from where
metallic birthday balloons defy gravity inside a late model minivan.
If it were up to me the Montgolfiers would get a lot more ink than the Wright brothers.
Fermenting in the narrowly acute slant of near-sunset rays
the light, whether filtered or reflected,
imbibes the branchborn hues while
feet and arms and eyes scuffle through
the tint of chardonnay and burgundy,
intoxicated by the harmonic harvest’s
symphony.
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