The Ropes

Hurry back, stooped, bent against the door
Somehow in the frame of what went before you
No need to turn the light on
The room just lit by the new sun rising
A dull glow beneath the edges of the heavy green curtains

See the sycamore tree, hung with new cocoons
I rummage in the dawn light with the other young baboons
The sky is crying hot air balloons
You pull the ropes
And you can choose the direction in which you are going

A scar curved like a hook in the valley in the middle of your back
Eddies of dust whirling out of the cracks
Look now: The cornfield
Look again: It has completely disappeared

They used to say you look a lot like me