The Wall

A wall stands in the middle
of my left foot's next step–
too upended
to knock down.
Its brick and stone
its barbs and rotted wood
go forever this way
(forever that way, too).


Can I climb? Can I climb?
It will tattoo my
unworked hands,
but I know there is
something
worth it, something the sun
lights up on the other side
pushing me to brave pain.


The wall stands nose to nose
with me and stares
a wicked growl.
My hands tremble
–feet sink the wild grass–
but I still lean forward
on my toes,
fingertips poised
to hook the wall
like a well-practiced
Spiderman.


Well, here we go,
up and over
was the master plan.
One great push into the wall
pushed me flat-backed
right where I began.