Perpetual Lean

My feet aren’t stuck firm in this turf:
I stand in perpetual lean.

The unmown weeds bruise themselves on my knee,
and when the wind blows,
it blows so hard against my chest,
I wonder if my ankles might snap.

I despair, knowing they won’t,
that this tension will, likely,
earn its release.

Last night I dreamt a car driven by a little white man
flattened me,
and put the weeds before me, and put the world behind me;
my feet pointed heavenward.

I lay seven days confronting the sky:
mountain nursery, fantastic zoo,
all in soft strokes, all in pale smoke and blue,
it argued for creation, until a vested man came,
singing to his cigarette, to take me away.

I dream more frequently now,
my own, and those of passing dreamers.

They stick to me, a sort of hot film,
for which I have no hands, no nails to defend.

August 26, 2026