the fence on which we hung
our ratty hopes of keeping goats
out of the garden
was itself a crow’s nest
of jumbled wire, wood,
and short synthetic lengths
born somewhere between the living and the cold
this fence required constant help
we went out like therapists
to shore up its self-esteem
shattered by early violations
to its integrity so deeply scarred
that it barely functions in the world
we tried to staple railway ties
to the up-curling bottom
to stop delinquent kids
from crawling under and taking ecstasy
in the cabbage patch
we nailed in ancient cedar rails
where its slouch invited
shows of cloven-foot supremacy
we parked balding tires
everywhere we sensed a breach of psyche
the blue remnants of saltlicks
we kicked into the center of the pen
to put distance between temptations
but all our fuss and therapeutic tinkering
failed
we lost our chard, our kale,
even our sharp garlic scapes
the fault , of course, was ours
for keeping goats
and rundown hopes
behind the same barn.