Fishnet

I see.
Chain linked fence rushing out
beyond the edge of my horizons
like torn fishnets over a weary leg
I ponder.
“Do the poorly painted life of weeds,
ways, and vermin horseback riding anthills, see me the same way”?
I sit
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.
I sleep.
Knowing when I wake
the fishnets and weary leg world of forgotten will be,
long before I wake again.

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