In the backyard
I can see the cloth lungs
of my shirt suck in
the scoured wind. There is something
out there I have never been able
to slip on and button
up to my chin.

                    When I
was ten I nearly got
it on. I had been keeping
in step with the rinsed step
of underwear. One light-
footed spin, and I would
have swung with the starched bones
along the line.

                      Since then
I have become suspicious
of weights and measurements.
I take my wooden walks,
and I feel pinned whenever
I watch the handkerchief
behavior of birds; whenever
I study the weather for signs
of a high wind.