Day 65
12/13/2006
Validation.
You've made your way down to row-end, the corn still only ankle-high,
and prepare to vault weedy pebble-muck ditch to reach road dust.
The scan hums as progress-parted scribblers set value tone and reach.
Fatal flame: fear, attraction cuff fingers to keys: a composition
worthy of worthiness, the shaking of the branch that turns heads and readies weapons.
You stand before the seats on high who will make hasty checks and nods
that lines of doubt streak shame-smudge on your prophyl pinafore.
Still, the words peck out, the façade shorn up, the shirt tucked in,
still facing culture wind.
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