Taking labored steps through faded photographs.
Do the oaks speak my language? Touching
rough bark with unworked hands and flinching
at the splinters. No, they don’t.
But I was not telling the truth. Diminutive footprints
springing up behind me, promptly erased.
A leaf in the wind, stuck in a bench.
The fork in the road, a cork in a wine bottle.
Walking with confidence in a daze. Drooping
branches reaching down, rustling in the chiming
winds. I wonder what I should do in this life.
Early dawn touches the faded bay. Why
am I here?
Mountains glare at the sun above. Pale shadows
line the streetlight, heavy raindrops sliding to disappear
in the ground. The air is warping around me,
bitter when it touches the cold metal.
So the shadows are stretching.
But everything’s going to be gone: leaves fading
into black, the world crumbling away until
I hear the sound of stirring animals. Icy breeze bites
my cheek: damp wood soft beneath my fingers.
Sitting amid the green lights, hoping that
I have made myself proud.