I am, on most days, off by an eyelash
or a foot, confusing down with up,
forgetting how it was or should
have been. I go humming half a song
by those whose music like a blade
I used to carve a version of myself.

What’s here is not always what I see,
what’s gone was never all I thought it was,
what is to come will be less than what I fear —
but even then, imagination bows 
to what is there, bone to bone, 
inch over inch.

Some days the world is closed,
an iron gate in place. One day
you reach out, push against it
anyway.