Nothing is soothing about barbed wire. Brand new
it may glisten like the cold heart of steel does but it will never
be your fuzzy peach, your sycamore tree. Rusted, it stains
your fingers – orange like a sun setting so far on the horizon
that the city haze shades it especially for you and your tired eyes.
Wire can be the vehicle for the hook that sacrifices the bass for you.
Wire can be the filament that brings light to your darkness, or song
on the wings of that sweet Baby Grand. Wire can suspend your linens
until the day kisses them dry, but barbed will only shred and mangle.
Barbed will only tear and tangle. It keeps the cows from straying
and the ponies baying, the convicts from second chances, and the elbows
of sentries on tables. Each machined little point is adept at fulfilling
its mission. Keep Out! Stay In! Get Out!
Only an ice storm could shroud it in beauty, only a madman
or a sad man would use it to keep him from flying apart.