Jean Michel Basquiat | The Field Next to the Other Road

 

Sneezing fits

of overgrown

unruly

grass

 

thieves of my senses

 

weed corpses

and branches

of tar

embracing the bare

skin

of my legs

 

caressing my ankles

 

pebbles trip me

I trudge forward

on chalky sand

dirt painting my arms

 

the sun

scorching

the bridge of my nose

the strip of skin

beneath my hairline

clutching the space

between

my dainty silver ring

and index finger

 

I wipe the glaze

from my face

lift the socks above

the red marks

on my ankles

 

I fiddle with the silver

my skin soaked

erasing the

sun’s sketches

from my skin

 

but the weeds

still puncture

my dirt-streaked

fabric

and

 

embrace me