The Slow Leaving
I will live like this,
a broad landscape
broken like snail shell
across the garden.
This pulling apart
of the land in loose silver strands.
Roots of irises exposed.
I will not articulate,
not for you,
the anxious house
I built around myself.
In my garden, chrysanthemums
billow.
The wind is landing
differently this year.
I no longer expect
to win or for you to stay
stood in the doorway
in all that ridiculous light.
