A Man, in Three Parts
here’s how it happens:
the man pushes my head down,
or am i pulled by the roots
like weeds? my body is a
body strung tight. my skin
hardens to wood and swells
out in thick rings, arms up,
rooted one hundred feet
below soil. somewhere there
are cows baying, long and
low, with wolves that look
like little lambs.
the man—in this light he is a man,
or a figure of a man. he has a face
like a clock has a face. he has
been looking for a place lodged in
the back of my throat. i would
go on if there was a point in
going on. i have gotten so good
at coming and going, i forgot
how it feels when there is so much
enduring left to do.
falling is just lying down.
he says, sleep, and really
it is kind of like that.
it was the kind of warm that puts you asleep,
the sun falling like a sheet on
my skin. we were in a bus or the car, it doesn’t
really matter, we were going
to a place i didn’t want to go. it could have
been night. i was slipping,
the car was moving ahead without me, going
forward and forward.
i have dreamed about it more than once.
i would go on—
the fewer places i can stay the more there are
to go—it makes me think of
a train ride i have taken. i can go on the
way the end of a string
becomes unrecognizable. the ends of my fingers
are always buzzing now.
i have become a type of lunatic, or a god. i could
smash something and it
wouldn’t take any effort at all.
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