Curl by Diane Seuss

Curl

 

No longer at home in the world

and I imagine

never again at home in the world.

 

Not in cemeteries of bogs

churning with bullfrogs.

Or outside the old pickle shop.

I once make myself

at home on that street,

 

and the street after that,

and the boulevard. The avenue.

I don’t need to explain it to you.

 

It seems wrong

to curl now within the confines

of a poem. You can’t hide f

rom what you made

inside what you made

 

or so I’m told.