The Hammock

by Matthew Caley

“What wind so blew that
a hammock netted a man?”

Two silver birches
bear the burden, which after
all is only some
diamond-shapes of air defined
by diamond-shaped hemp or twine

a man might fall through
somewhat strained, to the hard ground,
the up-ended sky,
the garden more of a slum
— fallen plums, rhubarb-ditches,

guy-ropes, trashed hutches —
to swing between states — high, low —
as if borne by the mind, fill-

ing a space he has
left behind, bearing no weight,
parched ground, hard-cut slants of light.