Walking Backwards
Walking backwards,
once done for so long,
makes walking forwards
unfamiliar.
Steps do not come naturally,
jerky, funky, breathing
even grows strange.
Then forward motion commences,
the plants blur
into a yellow-green, a bit of spinning
effect brings some baby blue sky
into the plant pastiche,
a real unreality,
a distorted view.
The corners of my eyes
capture a skew,
a dream-shot,
a tree by a curb,
some grass by an empty lot,
the only picture that is taken in full.
Hidden birds chirp out of sync
with their location,
processed with a delay,
like a film strip slightly disconnected
from its audio file.
Tear ducts don't function properly
when you walk backwards,
a bad machine needs oiling,
so when you're walking forwards
and cry, it is so long overdue
it does not cleanse
as it should.
I am not the troubled water,
I am a stone
on the bed of the river,
shaped smooth
by the choppy, rushing
water,
unmoved.