I don’t like feeling
like I am a shadow of myself
standing just outside the light
in the doorway.
But I do,
looking in at the room,
at the made bed
with too much light
falling on it now.
I prefer the storm against the pane,
the wind breathing
through the hollow
places ‘neath the roof’s shingles
when it’s too dark outside to see the surf
but loud enough to know it’s there.
All that’s over now—
the salt washed from my skin
in the last enshrouding rain.
My shadow’s stuck. A ghost hovering
with no reverse
and the forward light stings
like sand whipping up
the cold November coast.