Each time I descend
into the mesh of little certainties –
with the bird-peppered sky I block my eyes,
with the pungent stream of voices I block my ears,
into the noose of the horizon I put my head,
I weigh down my hands with a purpose,
I let them wander off into action like a pair of stray dogs,
I even eat this world, I let it inside me
where it piles up and rots.
All the surrounding pain and laments
weave me a heavy-breathing heart
that cackles in the cage of my chest
shaking it hard.
The only thing I have,
which will be always mine
is the memory of the clean downward curve
before I was trapped again.
But like a silver ball
that misses occasionally
the resplendent awaiting hands
and plunges into a murky pool
I will be taken out
and placed under the orbless sun,
and shed this dry and scaly dirt
stamped with the face of a man.