Self-portrait with field
Wind is seeker when I hide--unfixed,
small-hipped and sere, I am another blade
in disarray, transfixed
by weathering and what it might abrade
of me. I have unnecessaries:
belly fat, a slow way with clothes, a weakness
for bellows and endings. Ending's emissaries
are shy as tigers--I expected nothing less
of happiness; still, I watch what twitches
in orchard margins and under warped floorboards.
I adore our tilting floors and the slim pitch
of stairs you fell down, but I've been home before--
were we to meet like this, I would be stranger
found in a field. Were I loved, I would be braver.