Faces in the dirt, eyes of the sky

by Katharine Schulz

Sleep has swiftly evaded me, I fret.
“Has he forgotten to come tonight? Where is the familiar itch in my eye and bend in my spine?”
I think of the sandman from my wooded cocoon.
Yes, I may be within 100 paces from the water licking sand and the moon is fully ablaze,
no cloud interference whatsoever,
However, I feel most ensnared in a prickling bush at this very moment.

Eventually there is acceptance, I learn to embrace it because
I did do this to myself.
Tapping lifelessly
to get some sand to fall from the Stars into my eyes

While I wait I decide to do some thinking,
           “tonight will be my night”
for the underbrush is thick and dense under this Harvest moon
and I will have to get out my machete.
There is much to hunch my back and shoulders over,
how simple to give myself to deep, mystical thought:
no one matters, i don’t matter, why doesn’t anyone matter to me? why don’t i matter to anyone? what is this hand doing in front of me?
Then, my One big realization is a freckled crab apple cascading down to meet me
and to bash my brains in..:

Philosophical thoughts will help me not by morning time(!)
and a deep and hearty cry over a winding road,
hidden by the thicket and shrubbery,
can never be true as blue
for it does not exist.
The map of trumpets and guitars that lead me down this beaten and mushroomed path
is a red herring
and now my legs are soaked to the knees in salt.
instead the road is a performance, a play, done by the puckish fairies of days crossed off,
and Paul McCartney.

Anything more to say?

© 2021 Katharine Schulz  All rights reserved.

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