Bricks

I stand against the current

of vertical laid brick,

red hard beneath my

leathered feet.

The sun against my back

warmth pressing into my

spine. I rest in its

arms, swaying

only when the current

of brick and breeze

buckle me to my knees.

Ever moving in this stand still,

this perpetually stationary stance,

bracing me, I bracing,

eyes drooping, black beneath

bottom lashes, purple.

“You look so tired,” they say.

“It’s the brick,” I say,

“its rising from the morter to

pound me in the face

with reality, the reality of living in a world

of flying bricks”. “What?”

Bowing my stance.

Lean into the sun,

Brace yourself my dear.

Sun,

hold me steady,

Wrap your fiery fingers around

my shoulders;

tender my wounds if only

for a second.