fences, hunters break my view
before the forest, as ever, and it
impale their heads.
I stuck. My little toe
begins to itch. I gets cold.
A game, a first wet keys
the old braids, fresh straw,
kept in the cigar box.
It smells still to Cuba,
for rebellion, crisis and fun.
My laughter dissolves in the rigidity.
I look soluble. The moon is pale.
© 2009 Simone wedge
