I’ve been misheard as a man risking fortunes on a tumble.
Would rather be bounding round a meadow. Longed for grass
to be grown to my knees, such that I must jump to be
a simple boy who finds joy in the sun overhead. Landing
in a puddle of sweat shimmering up to a pond’s edge,
peering up at the black that comes when a day surrenders.
Simple, path and relax in a joy found freely. You find me
on the green felt under fluorescents believing cunning
will get me off the floor up-enough to head out for the door,
past parking lots and gold bulbs, which I can’t seem to find
anymore. No idea, the sky today. But I hope blue, to lie
beneath you causing us a moan, for your eyes to close,
for something inside us to come alive, fly. Our wing tips
on the grass’s edge. If not to boxcars, then, to the end.