Clumsy: blocky feet stretch for blocks.
Stamps, cracked in asphalt rolls.
The feet of a tower, toes curling into
the turf of pedestal hill.
The mold was broken in the make,
in the casting, the matter over-ran.
Needs be hacked away again:
exercises, instructor!
Make me grace again, as I was meant.
I want to freeze the shape I take as I
stumble, the dignities of bit-heroines
in me; and also to dance in my bed-thrashing
manner, throwing off sheets with an arm’s
prim sweep, scissoring legs in the grace of sleep,
the blocky feet crowding the end forgiven:
by the grace of sleep.
-2003
