There in the ashy lap of a cloud goes my tomorrows, spinning and soaring. What do they see from that dizzy height? Dive, my futures, and meet me halfway.
It's as if my muddied feet need a harlot's hair for a washcloth, or maybe a fireman's hose. The earth is too thick yet to let go...
In the mornings weekends long past I needed no more urging than the tension of a sleeping father to force me through the doors, down the thorny paths, across the broken streets, along the mossy creeks. It was then the solid barrier of nightfall I dreaded only, for only then would the father become aroused to notice. My absence.
A hundred legends were learned in those parks, a thousand mythological beasts destroyed by weapons of stick and stone. The treasures bound up in the limestone-ammonite snailshell yards around, great wormtracks and birdtrails etched before the ice ages; before the coming of men and their troubled children. I could have been happy to have so rested in those creekbeds, unheeding of shouts and blistering stares. Cool under clear water, under blue sky, under stars.
Back then there were still hidden places to find, you see. Back trails where joggers feared to tread; only the innocent knows nothing of amber bells ringing. Back country behind cyclone fences, dogs tied to trees in backyards, fathers pushing mowers. Far enough away so not to be seen, heard as the calls of imaginary monsters. I laughed at all the monsters then.
Is that what you see from on high, my reeling tomorrows? I wish you were blind, for why climb so high if only to get a better look at the mud beneath my feet?