Analysis of Willows don’t Weep as much as me

“Can’t you hurry up?” he says as my ankle
Bone creaks (like a hinge)
Falls into the dewy grass—
Browns, decays, and rusts away.

I hopscotch to a weeping willow
and yank a vine from its frosted bough.  
Tourniquet my limb--
One foot dangles out of the grave

And sets into hues of sunrise,
Too early and too late to sleep,
Without curtain entrails falling from trees.

The sun burns my eyes.

“Can’t you see I’m dying?” I yell
To his mile-long shadow up-ahead.
“Can’t you see
​I’m dying?” the bluffs echo back to me.