Today, I woke up to spearmint soaked vegetation,
where I communed and warred with
jagged-edged thistle, and needle-nosed insects
filling their large bellies with the space between
the stitching of my shirt. I pounded
my foot on metal and the ground beneath opened.
I lifted and the tender roots of those things I call
weeds snapped and popped as they were torn from
their sphere, like fish from a pond.
Today, I walk as though
I were in a giant corn-field where
a thick fog floats through shortly after
the sun has fallen below the ragged trees off
in the distance. But I cannot see those trees,
I see only the grey around me,
and I hear it ask me the same question
again and again and again and
I know it is me asking the question. While the answer,
like the horizon, is something I already know.
The problem is, I don't want to leave the fog.
I want
the sun to set so that I can leave and never have
to look
or think about the horizon ever again.
A deer passes, he is on his way out of the corn-field,
I stare at him jealously, wanting to follow him or
hoping time will stop
so I can have a little more time to think about it.