When I was free
in misery. Its moments
so singular it seemed
impossible
another could follow.
Or if it did
that I could bear it.
To live
on needles, or feeling
a leaden cope
on my shoulders.
Not move,
not ever again
wish to move.
But in the end
to make myself—
think how small my drowning
in the sea
there, how light
my body would lie.
Or to walk
through marsh grass,
a yew forest, a white stream. Unburdened
because, having failed
already, I carried
no future
and no fear.