Protect the wall: not the wall
that clarifies and dedicates
my dwelling, but that
in another environment
prevents my passing.

Most find a loophole, not large enough
for themselves, of course,
but sufficient for a small
excursion of self, for a small
ecstasy that learns, as you love it,

its separateness, and grows, as slowly
it abandons you.
It passes through, so small at first,
you feel you can stop hurling yourself
against the impermeable.

But I can’t stop—
my wall is perfect.
I too have sent out my excursions
and intentions, and have stood apart and gazed
and grappled myself senseless and dazzled

and happy.
But I am enclosed;
neither children nor words
will look back through
and bless my abundance.

[and call me parent.]

[and bless my grave].