Some Part of Yourself, Then—Vast, Repeating
Sometimes I climb myself. I hear her
holding her breath
so that her breathing does not obscure
the sound of the rain,
does not push our bedroom like a paper boat
through the window out into the cedar boughs.
And I am
waving black flags of sand,
blotting out the nights
I truly was gone, had hopped the high wall
of my body
to travel that labyrinth back to you.
