Paralysis

Laid out flat in the back of the station wagon my father borrowed I look up: the leaves are immense, green and golden with clear summer light breaking through – though I turn only my neck I can see all of them along this avenue that has no limits. What does it matter that I am only eyes if I am to be carried so lightly under the trees of the world? From beyond the numbness of my strange body the wealth of the leaves falls forever into my small still watching.