Hands and Feet

Soles grind gravel along the road shoulder.

One foot. Two foot.

Walk without sight, journey without reason.
Eyes fixed on the swimming ground
that passes like a conveyor belt below.

One foot. Two foot.

And the earth heaves, giving way
in a cascade of hearty clumps.
Sideways now, careening into a ditch.

No feet.

Supine lying in the sun,
wreathed in dewy autumn weeds.

The sky is beautiful.

I have a wound in my side, from which
my energy has been slowly bleeding—
a robust drop with every foot.

I think I’ll stay here awhile. 
The sky is beautiful.

I’ll let these weeds grow through me
and become part of the earth.
The apertures of my eyelids constrict.

Yes, I think I’ll stay here awhile—forever maybe.

Won’t you give me your hand?
Not any hand will do.
I should lie here until I become these weeds.
Forgotten in a ditch—overgrown and overcome.

I think I’ll stay here forever. The sky is beautiful.

Can’t you reach out?
I see you, right there.
Won’t you give me your hand?

The sky is beautiful.

Don’t you hear me?
Will you leave me here?

I’ll stay here forever.

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