The glove is a blue thumb

The glove is a blue thumb

on the neighbor’s dead grass.

When I reached over, the wire

caught the wool of my sleeve

and held me for a beat too long.

The maple has swallowed the chain-link.

The bark is folding over the steel

in thick, gray lips,

accepting the metal as part of its heart.

I pull my arm back.

The diamonds are pressed into my skin,

red and deep and temporary.

A grid I carried away with me

into the house.