I’m trying lately to include myself
as no less than the trees and stars
in my landscape-to-be-acted-on. It’s
always such surprise when I see how

I’m an object-for-others, and they deal
with me or move around me, and sex
blooms sticky in the calls of birds, and
love collects itself in the difference.

No-one knows the trouble I’ve seen.
We can’t even assume the existence
of one another, at least as anything
other than refracted light. But lately

it’s comforting to think of myself in the dark,
waiting for you. Sharpening. Sharpening.