His gentle, oak eyelids
are shut against the golden morning.
It is neither his first nor last.
With one arm draped over himself,
he is Ariadne
on a jagged bed of upturned sidewalk.
I wonder
whether he dreams of those muddled roots
growing between the chainlink fence
beside the park.
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This is a lovely piece. I appreciate its uniqueness. The lines, “His gentle oak eyelids are shut against the golden morning. It is neither his first nor last,” are particularly striking. You might be referring to a tree, or perhaps using the tree as an analogy for human life. We can resemble trees—stagnant and resistant to change—watching helplessly as our tangled roots anchor us in the same place.