Jack.
if there is a middle
of nowhere,
knee-high indigo grass ripples there around the body of a boy
bent and perplexed in the face.
and one gloomy tree leans over
casts shadows over
sketches patters over
his gray complexion.
the grass shivers in a ravenous wind
stealing the red leaves from over his head
and throwing them into the
white sky
imagining the earth turns over in its sleep,
disturbed maybe
little worms crawl away
and the beetles seek refuge in his straight black hair
fish swim away in his fool green eyes
a top hat sits on his chest
and his fingers drum abstractedly on its aged brim
slowly and softly decomposing
