old things i found in sketchbooks, belonging to stories and paintings. number two:

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