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.
Comments