I
mustn't poke a foot or knuckle
through
any narrow crevice
or
complain about inadequacy,
alteration or time;
I
brought shadows with me
and
they flex their skinny arms
filling
up the extra edges
with
the fear of being new.
I
remember a drip of water
how
it pinged against a bucket
and
the clicking of the beetle
that
hurried me to change.
I am here inside the longest tube
here inside the finer lines,
I am here beside a mirror
with no image looking back.
Someone
whispers from the garden
about
the higher branches,
promises
me milkweed
and all the speckled air.
I
only need to battle
the
lure of expectation,
and
not take too deep a breath
before
the beat of wings.