I was a collapsed barn
All you saw were the wisps of bent hay
floating around my temples
making it hard to see
my temples
turned patient in their sockets
while sentimental gossips poked them back ahead
that summer, sulking
afternoon
suffocating in the laboring sun
pointing and deliberate
the grasses wept
from another point of view it all looked soft
Crickets are another man's silence
The old boards have nails in them, so put your shoes on
This treasure is only plastic from the seventies
This emerald is only a wet stone