Chain linked fence rushing out
beyond the edge of my horizons
like torn fishnets over a weary leg
“Do the poorly painted life of weeds,
ways, and vermin horseback riding anthills, see me the same way”?
Beneath this iron tree of torn cloth and
broken branched shade maker,
concentrating on the concert of forgotten:
The leg is metal white with crumbled stubble
dusted over with green bits of shouldn’t be there moss.
Knowing when I wake
the fishnets and weary leg world of forgotten will be,
long before I wake again.