Dimple Dell Park

crisscross, of tiny crawling ants,
an unremitting fly
flies about my sun-sweat brow
laying vomit
so quaint, to the host, my leg

left to ponder,
lines in mind,
“the worst part of me,
is you”

so true

from only one year of
passive change,
acting as a reminder

to the pen that writes,
from force of the scar applied to paper
or from the razor,
that shaves bear my face

with irony,
cleansing of transgression
unlike the memory,

only to be forgotten by concussion,

to arms stretched
reaching for something to hold,

my eyes, closed,
my quiet mediation
locked in a dream of a time ago,
the nightmare, of falling, and dying

before the body meets the ground
you must awaken, for protection,
otherwise, you meet your demise
so spoken, as far as the saying goes,

I never awoke that day,
my real life nightmare
but, at least now,
reborn, eyes open
clear and clean,

I can
forgive myself,

on my mound held high,
alone,
in Dimple Dell Park,
understood by reeds and insects