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white fence, part 2 by Michael Prihoda

as if it wasn’t there.
            swipe of hand

                        and enough,
                        it doesn’t tumble

            it evaporates. the vanish
            of feeling

            watched. the thing is they know
                        they are being watched too

                        but they get to laugh about
                        it
                                    because
                                    they have nothing
           
            to fear from
            what is observed.

life one finger wrong
                                                            they think it’s about

                                    triggering
                        a          bomb.
                                                            rend
                                                            all
                                                            naked

until they see what you are now.
           
faceless, grown
                        from dirt


of a different name

---

Michael Prihoda lives in central Indiana. He is the founding editor of After the Pause, an experimental literary magazine and small press. His work has received nominations for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net Anthology and he is the author of nine poetry collections, most recently Out of the Sky (Hester Glock, 2019).

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