— Pushpa MacFarlane

parallel lines
run through the poem

on college-ruled page
with spaces in between

avoiding clutter
in 12-point solid text

and breathing space
as in window slats

railway lines set apart
like rungs on a ladder

just wide enough, not too close
to cause claustrophobia

or prevent shocks from telecom
wires lined in pairs

with enough space for
a row of black-winged birds

to fluff up
and twitter in silence

like soft notes
on a staff of a score sheet

with chords on guitar strings—
sharps and flat

boards on the deck
where smugly on a pink adirondack

I think: what if a couple let
too much space in between?

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