I am always trying to have polite conversation
with my own guilt: rose tea with juniper berry.
Bitterness abrades a delicate thing. Blundering
old bully. Marmoreal hypocrite. I am unrelenting
even in the presence of my strong little girls. Oh,
you skinned knees of the world, I promise you—
who climb any tree at all, delighted by capability—
I want to be kind when exposed. I knock back
my potential for invisibility. Any day now
I will be bridled in a stampede, pressed close
by the bison as they abandon the valley. I will go along:
I am always looking to be deconsecrated by nature.
Nobody wishes for boredom, debt. I begin to suspect
there is no appropriate ointment. To taste
a little of a poison thing is to reflect. Put down
the Tiger Balm. I will give up my perfect height.