Through the Fence

A pastiche poem by Debbie Frampton and William Faulkner
1999

Through the fence,
Between the curling flower spaces,
I could see them.
I could hear them talking.
A sound meaningless and profound.
I stood in weeds
And we looked at one another for a while.
There was a sense of water,
Swift and peaceful above secret places
Felt, not seen, not heard.

When I’m gone it will be easier on you.

I could still hear the clock between my voice
Ceasing as if cut off with the blow of a knife.
I don’t suppose anyone ever deliberately
Listens to a watch or a clock.

He looked at me
Then emptied everything out of his eyes.
I couldn’t stop it.
I knew if I tried to stop it I’d be crying.

I could hear it getting night.
It was like a door.
Only it wasn’t a door.
Then it was gray.
Then it was gone—
Beyond the broken, infrequent slanting of sunlight.

If things just finished themselves.
You’d think misfortune would get tired.
But then time is your misfortune.

I see now I must pay for your sins as well as my own.