I know my footprints make
achy commas in the snow
Icy shibboleths of everywhere
I've been, when breath catches.
I keep finding these reminders--
the plainsong of my wandering
as though to say: now just pause
'cos--no one's ever here that long.
So commas--broken signs of all
kinds: earned, separate, or set off--
Of course I've known forever how
I am guilty of love--never list me alone.