A poem by Robert Joe Stout
Gray cotton pants
twist around the stake—its bones—
as quivering eyes
try to focus on dreams
disappearing through the rotting fence.
I call to it and the trees answer.
The birds fold inward
wither into seasons
as predictable as the crows
—or my leaning against a hoe,
Robert Joe Stout is the author of two collections of poetry, Monkey Screams (FutureCycle Press) and A Perfect Throw (Aldrich Press), and six chapbooks. He is a freelance journalist in Oaxaca, Mexico.