Lying face down in the grass,
my face is moist.
Dew collects on my hair;
I am sweating.
I breathe now, not having
done so for some moments.
The grass smells of summer.
The blades scratch my face.
I open my eyes:
cannot see.
I am disoriented:
breathing.
How long has it been?
I roll over:
cannot move.
My mind is processing movements.
My body is dumb.
The fresh air fills my stagnant lungs.
The sun warms my back.
At least I can feel it now.
I melt in the sun and slowly move.
Pain seizes my joints,
but I face upright.
I see my reflection in the sky
next to Lucy and her diamonds.
1 comment:
This is a narrative experiment that I am trying. Usually, I feel that narrative poetry works better in a prose-poetry form. I wanted to try something with more distinct line breaks to indicate my rapid internal processing. Does this work?
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