What I Am

I am suddenly outside myself
like the moon and the air
thick with crickets.
They sing to each other
and there is not one note
about me.
I was a scribbled journal
left above the coats
in the meeting house.
I was like the coats,
having been adequate
to warm you.
I was like the huge sycamore
that has fallen in heavy rain
that even moved the ground,
and was talked about for a week.
I am moving farther from
what I thought I was,
way into the country,
where I sink to what is chaste.

I let my body be a hillside
by a mountain stream,
tickled to the brink of bearing.