The Man Who Saws Us in Half: Poems

So Tired

2 So Tired The lord of the playground hangs exhausted as rusted nails, his elbows crooked around pipes of the jungle bars. He wonders whether his friends have left, his followers have forsaken him. Three crows land above his head hungry for the falling light of his eyes. The blood cannot drip from his cracked nose; failure penetrates each cell. In this lull of play, sun disappears; leaves, like saints, forgive; wind, like a demon, tries turning over an unloaded bus. So tired, to raise his head, open his eyes would be like parting waves. What is worth looking up to? Heat blisters, light blinds, and birds, like dreams, always come back to ground. If the world had been the aura he saw between slides and swings then this were no defeat. But every bit of light is glare, signs and hours posted, distance around the track, prohibition of bicycles and glass containers. 3 He’s left to think, and hang near the flagpole while last crows search the images he thought were play, when play was the world. ...