Iridescent, black-iron fence
Clay dust
Hesitant spider's web, pulled by the wind
Charred oak
Rotted, frayed, abandoned mutt harness
Trepidant cool beneath the shade
Ivory paper glowing in
a sun's generous exposure
Retired stadium lights;
a boundary
Shards of stained glass
Vile, buzzing flies (can't they be hungry, too?)

Pale half-moon,
unforgiving hard earth
Serrations of grass
A thousand neon leaves
Inescapable chill
Pair of house wrens, tumbling to the dirt
hastening away before a greeting can be uttered
Cross-hatch benches; no spectators
Simple plucked clover
Asymmetrical gate
Impatient pen tapping
Barking dog
Pretty boy sitting alone:
are you as curious as I am?

I wander, fumbling my skin against anything that might give
When did this start to fade?

Why can I only find it on assignment?

I lose the senses I had as a child, to be replaced with this cursed apathy
I can't shake

The dog barks again
Can they feel it, too?

"45, good play."
"Alright guys, let's head back."
But the mineral clay persists in the grooves of my skin just as it does in the fibers of this page
Who can take that away?

Writing is immortalizing, so let me keep
this filth; let me absorb it, and maybe
it will find its way back
to where I've wanted to be
for so long