The Hanging Man

Hoist by an ankle,
my every joint squeaks,
Hair hangs from my head
as though scared to death.
I am held to the globe
by anti-gravity.
Pigs and chickens, however,
stroll past on the ceiling,
apparently none the worse.
One gets used to anything.
Water runs uphill,
clouds rub their backs on the floor,
sunshine leaks its way
up through a hole in the ground.
Despite my excitable hair
I look introverted
(so upright friends tell me):
an arm and leg akimbo,
the ankle below the right foot
structurally startling.
A world like this
(Was there another?)
sets me tip-top,
hangdog, invert,
slewfoot, periculous.
I sway with each breeze
that whistles past my foot
and peep at overhead pebbles
swirling like hail;
but I see what the pigs
and chickens cannot see:
a world running down
despite all appearances.
Tolerating this anti-world
has made me the only
joke in the deck.
My only hope
is to be dealt with
or cut down.