Empty Sandals

by Stik Mann

"Talking to your bug friends again, Mr. Poet?"

But it is not uncommon for voices to cry out for no apparent reason, so you continue to lie on a wooden plank and stare up into the darkness.

Your backparts know every knot and sliver of the rough-hewn board, but you have long since stopped lamenting the lack of comfort. You open your eyes and close your eyes, and very often forget which is which.

The phantom outlines of clouds drift above you at many different levels and you contemplate their substance. You have seen them before. You wonder where they will take you next.

The clouds are somewhat under your control. You think of sky and the clouds leave blue trails. You think of grass and the trails are green. You think of grass. The green streaks across the ether. Splashes of blue peek through like sky through leaves.