Breathing Heavy

Ice in my ringing ears,
sun scrape lotion on my forehead.

The grass confuses me,
cold, hot, textured, alive, damp
seeps into my back
before I want to allow it.

The air confuses me
hot, bright, sober blue,
site of dreams,
crossed by metal commerce.

The clouds do not pull enough
to overcome the pressure of the earth.
It hurts my back, arms, legs
pressing, cutting circulation.

Rising to my feet
is a bitter journey
of a thousand postures
beginning by surrendering the clouds.

© 1999 John P. Nordin. Do not copy.