foxing raze i am a wind- wobbled fence, top rail torn by the teeth of restless rodents. i part my pickets to watch a woman wipe her phone's face with the hem of a shirt half as long as she is tall. if i were a book, you couldn't pry the liver spots from my jaundiced pages with god's hands. where you see the irrefutable evidence of aging, i see the wounds that have weathered me into what i am. to paint over the pain would be to miss out on the miracle of having survived it. 260309 what's it to you? who go blather from