I am more reclusive than I ever
dreamed that I could be – far more
I hide in the burrow of poetry
not because I don’t love the sun
but because shadows terrify me
especially my own which seems an abyss
into which I could fall without ever
coming to the end of my falling
it’s a limited life, hiding here in this
so shallow excavation of earth, poetry,
but it’s the best I have been able to do
I’m aware, too, that trees and tall buildings,
houses, other people, even birds in the sky
and ships far out on the bounding main
are quite at ease with their shadows
and don’t know what I call my abyss
I come up on cloudy days before rain
which sends me back into my burrow
I’m afraid I compose my best songs
without light or shadow, when I’m snug