Matthew Brown
The Way You Look in Morning It was a year before I learned the right way to pull myself over the top row of fence wire, pushing the calloused knot of my soft belly against the barb and swinging my legs over the stumped pasture, over saltlick and compost pile, the quiet heat of decay, without getting cut. Until someone ran an electric line through, and sent charged pulses around the woodlot and back, all at once, waves of liquid blue and yellow fire burning only when touched, meant neither to hold something in, nor to leave it out.    
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