The Anatomy of the Hammock by Jack Underwood

Once, in a hammock, life was a dogleg drive.
I had a worry in my chest like the bad layer
of an onion – I felt strung between two things:
I closed my eyes and I was moving.
I opened them and I was not.
We are nearing the conclusion of this anatomy.
We are strung between the point of ending, and
the point of having started. Above me leaves layer up,
but do not hide the sky. Below me the ants move,
seemingly meaningful. Their little minds agree,
each like a high musical note. They arrive
from a hole I have no idea about, then disappear
down another such hole, I can only imagine.
I wonder about them. For some minutes.


Date: 2015

By: Jack Underwood (1984- )


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