Not much is larger than my house. The sea,
Sometimes the sky, each black as coal.
On walks my new life does not follow me.
I tread the cliffs and look for narrow shoals
Where waves will form even on the stillest days.
I try not to think of the places that I’m walking from.
Instead I gaze at tortured trees
And clouds that look raked over with a broom.
Turning back, my dress clings to my thighs,
My sweater riffling like reflective rain
Collected in a puddle. A solitary
Walk each day does not protect me from my life,
Nor am I sure I want to be alone again.
The house looms up. It’s taller than the sea.