And then, thinking only of escape, trapped,
it seemed, tethered either to house, the demon
of elusive sleep, or a suckling insatiable babe –
like some animal circling its homefires of steel –

recalling Bradbury's unhappy heroine, setting out
determined, yet when loosed, utterly lost, 

and Sexton, shredding her seams, doffing
routine, then careening compass-less until...

and my own small freedom – to name my newborn
anything, no dead left to elegize –
appropriating just sumptuous sound –
and oh, the release in that –

until it floated like a helmeted man
on a broken rope, turning and tumbling
in slow somersaults, relinquished
to stars and darkness –

So it's clear why I'm here in the thick of it,
the thin waxing wantonly wide.