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Some Borders Should Not Be Crossed

Lifting my head 
above a wall
to peek at a Drive In Movie, 
I grab a wire,
                               discovering
pain in my fist.
As I crawl under a fence
to visit cows, my 
                                   consciousness 
is pushed down
through the top of my head,
the pasture forced 
into a dream.
From an ink brush,
the Zen master draws
the paper’s
	              electricity, 
but we only see 
his blank eyes
as he pushes through.
We only hear the rip.

The formatting for this poem may not be accurate on small screens, so a PDF version is available.

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