I was a collapsed barn
All you saw were the wisps of bent hay
Floating around my temples
signal flares for a pacified angel
My eyeballs
turned patient in their sockets
summer, sulking
While sentimental gossips poked them back ahead
Exacting straws, needled from firm dirt that lifting cracks
Shaggy roots that crumble padded
suffocating in the laboring sun
to possibly be drenched again and run into the river
pointing and deliberate
The grasses wept
From another point of view,
it all looked soft
Crickets are another man's silence
The barn boards have old nails in them
so put your shoes on
The treasure is only plastic from the seventies
The emerald is only a wet stone