Photo by Jon Sailer on Unsplash

Something there, smaller and meaner than before—
where the palm of the hand rests on the collarbone—
ails me. I’m sure that’s where the shame is.

How it shrank like an old walnut, what was once
the locust-heart of summer. The meadowlark’s
V for victory over the yellow days. Turn and turn,

and turn it over. Little turtle of remorse. My voice
smells woody like pine needles and moving
water. There’s so much of me I didn’t build at all.