Some part of yourself, then-—vast, repeating-—
       

Sometimes I climb myself. I hear Sarah
holding her breath
so that her breathing does not obscure
the sound of the rain,
does not push our bedroom, like a paper boat,
out the window into the cedar boughs.

l am
waving black flags of sand,
blotting out the nights I truly was gone,
nights I'd hopped the high wall of my body
to travel that familiar labyrinth
back.

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Copyright © 2018 Todd Fredson All rights reserved
from Century Worm
New Issues Poetry & Prose
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission