Sunday, August 7, 2011


This is an exercise on skirting the edge of things,

on loving where you are,
but looking, for the sake of looking, somewhere else.
When I touch you all my talk of freedom
dissipates. I am not free
to leave my lovely circle—no, I am!
though not to leave and to come
back as I choose, no consequence, no mud

from my boot tracked back. There is always mud
wider than the longest jump between our just
white rims. I am free
to sully your circle, to tramp back
to my own with dirty soles,
knowing when I am alone again what I have done.