The Birthplace of Barbed Wire
       

I dress as the eyehole
of a skeleton, the unlit
hallways of a dollhouse

in storage, a spilt oil
butterfly on the concrete floor.
The garage door clicks

upward like a wooden
rollercoaster. The air
is a controlled prairie fire.

Flits of hair cross the moon
as I captain my wheelbarrow
past an apple tree

scaffolded with chicken wire.
I balance a bouquet
of planks on my shoulder

as flashlights
poke the fence slits
like the arms of a jailbird.

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Copyright © 2022 Collin Callahan All rights reserved
from Thunderbird Inn
Conduit Books & Ephemera
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission