If all that grows starts to fade, starts to falter
Oh, let me inside, let me inside, not to wait

                             Acts of Man, Midlake

On Wednesdays going on Saturdays
I get out of bed
stiff as a board and walk
to the living room and open

the balcony doors and since my body
does not care for topography or any
logical linearity, like a train
always entering the station,
am amid

oranges with thick cellulite skins fallen
from the tree, smelling deep
of after sex and Barolo left
forever and the patrons

of lavender fields, hill traveling flutes,
and streams and rocks
with smooth sides and sharp edges my fingers
can trace,
I can climb

and my feet in the dirt and three red nails
and the face of an ancient goat and
the dog’s tongue and vision board green

of sage and my hand
in the water all but risen
to wave at the interlude

of a man, a chirping child, the exhale
of a low cloud of dust from the gravel

where the car, passing like,
like everything