The Hole in the Fence Beckons

…that’s the thing, as it makes all the difference
in what you see, when you look, how you see it.
All is and is not as it portrays itself. It depends on how
and when, how badly you want it to be so. Sometimes
a rose is a rose is a rose, other times not so.
Bury you nose in her petals to sniff the scent of
a wished for kiss or disguised as a warm red blanket
on a cold, cold night. The thorny ladder of rejection
leads to unsurpassed beauty that you can’t have.

Hands held in great tenderness unclasp. Love lost,
love rejected, soft love, velvet love undulates,
shape shifts before your very eyes.
So is the hole in the fence just a shortcut
to the secret spot? Does it shorten the time
it takes to get home? Is it entrance or exit,
a way in or a way out, following the path of others
who found a way, with bloody fingers or bolt cutters,
tearing open a hole in the fence so others can follow,
to escape a hardscrabble life, a limiting life, a life
of being hemmed in, trapped in a cycle of harm, or worse—
intolerable repetitive boredom.

The Hole in the Fence Beckons

The dogs in pursuit bark in the distance but you
confound the cops. They can’t find the opening
you have just passed through. All around you
the blazing colors of a new dawn, invite you
to pass through, embrace the coming day.
Full of life the briny sea invites you to live or die,
an invitation to kill or be killed, an advertisement
to join the Navy or to abandon your post, to abscond
through the gap into a different life. Burn your uniform,
change your name, convert your DNA address.
Take the shortcut in or the shortcut out. Either way
the hole in the fence beckons.