The Anatomy of the Hammock
Once, in a hammock, life was a dogleg drive.
I had a worry in my chest like the bad layer
of an onion – I felt strung between two things:
I closed my eyes and I was moving.
I opened them and I was not.
We are nearing the conclusion of this anatomy.
We are strung between the point of ending, and
the point of having started. Above me leaves layer up,
but do not hide the sky. Below me the ants move,
seemingly meaningful. Their little minds agree,
each like a high musical note. They arrive
from a hole I have no idea about, then disappear
down another such hole, I can only imagine.
I wonder about them. For some minutes.
The streets look like they want to be frying eggs
on themselves. I’m thinking of you and going
itchy from it. I keep expecting to see a nosebleed
on the hot, yellow pavement. Every thought is
a horse fly. When you’re not here I concentrate
on getting somewhere safely; and when I get to
somewhere safe I gnaw the day until you’re home.