Narrow like Planks of Wood, like Chinks in the Armor

You ask about my aim in life, then claim
it’s narrow. To want so little
means not to want enough. I disagree.
I want too much. More breath. The forest
whole, unstrewn to planks, un-
burning back to green.
More
time. The vein of ore,
untapped. No calls to war, no armor
forged, no chinks incurred, but yes, more
joy. Call me greed.

So far, I’ve become what my eyes
happen to land on. I am
this highway. I am this fluorescent
bulb looking down. I am this
sky, inverted, belly-up. Its clouds
mere crutches.
Have you noticed
how most road signs point
toward the distance between us?
Just now, I crossed the street
to escape my shadow.

My steps pull me through a gust
of leaves, their green voice
rustling my name. The sun is oblique
like a wing. Pebbles roll under
my feet. Snail shells. Bullets of flesh
encased in thought.
My body is
eager and taut. Someone
has mowed the grass here. I breathe in
its wounds. Things die
whether I see them or not, and when I do,
I die a little, too.