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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