the sky looks bigger and trees, blacker when i am on a swing with my feet scraping the sand each time i fall back to the earth. rusted wood look like corinthian pillars holding up the space between the ground and the sky. i swing in that space between; back and forth, back and forth as if my life would wither away if istopped - teasingly at the trees that spread out their charcoal fingers as if to grab me and eat me up into its shadows. my toes are ashened - dipped in pompeiian volcanic dust that have bubbled its way onto the dry surface of makeshift frogponds beneath my swing. i trail footprints back to Dream with a song whispering around my lips like cigarette smoke escaping in hopes that someone would find them one day and track them like they would tiger footprints.