At night I walk. Because
it is easier then to not
be my story. Easier to be
more flesh and less brain.
Easier to be the one
who is gathered into
the field of darkness
by night’s great hands
and planted there.
Because sometimes
rain and sometimes wind
and sometimes stars
and always the world
so much larger than I,
so much vaster
than a small room
with a narrow doorway
and a tale relentlessly sad.
I walk not so much from,
but not so much to—
more that I walk through—
my ribs and lungs
becoming ladder rungs
that form a path
between earth and sky,
and I am more breath
than blame, more step than
shame, more now than why.