Untucked, Home, Apr ’20

The pocket my feet came to rest within
Is no longer with us, I probe,
Cul artlessly ripped from sac.
Now my toes obtain cooler air,
Abseiling with unimpeachable trust in their belays. Now
I reshoulder this gleaner's bag and keep picking,
Fearful of the fall.

The blanket, so carefully lain to start the night, 
Is askew. The dog now occupies
No small portion of our pitch, upturned, unawares.

What is required next of me will be some crook in the sinuous form,
An adaptation against the direction of motion,
A fearful plunger bracing himself halfway down the waterfall,
Hoarse, incapable already of what comes next. Did

Those my forefathers unrecognizable 
In any annals of scrivening man
Take themselves to contortion,
Faced with muted, terror-stricken midnight arousals?
Surely. Then why feel I

As though I in dawny manhood must
This trail alone, unaided blaze?

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