Weathered

It drags itself through the world.
You can see it but you can’t
Ask it any questions yet.

You’re not sure it has shoulders.
If it does, you’d say they’re hunched.
You try hard not to project,

But withholding projected
Anthropomorphic feelings
From it just leaves abstractions,

And you dislike abstractions.
What does it feel? Anything?
It seems so solemn, gliding

Between you and the light. Shut
Your eyes and you may hear it,
Both a rustling and a thrum,

As if crepe or fallen leaves
Were brushing the ground above
Machinery in a mine.

Inhale, and you can smell it,
Fresh and damp, but metallic,
Rain in an abandoned town.