And now I come to wear your clothes, shirts
you no longer fit and barely wore in the end;
accumulated in piles to divide and sort,
of three sizes— which was the size of you?
I'll accustom my tastes to them, necessarily
choose their cuts and colors, assimilate snaps,
wishing for buttons, unbegrudge a missing
inch of sleeve and draw your skin upon mine,
assuming your hide, pattern, and hue—
don this sudden wealth overwhelming
my life, this unbidden inheritance
now become shrouds of the everyday.
Stepping Between The Strands
For Robert Taylor Baggott
The fence catches and rips my shirt,
my pants are tattered and worn,
seams unraveling; mud oozes through
holes in my boots; my feet are damp.
I am Adam tearing out of his clothes,
the world my seeming accomplice—
already I feel a raiment of fresh light
the air's embrace beckoning like spring
water thrilling every pore.
I enter a raucous quiet through its bright,
green door. I remember the place I first
wakened, wind tearing through the treetops
at the edge of the yard, four years after I was born,
names suddenly pressing into my thoughts.