Self-Portrait as Viburnum

White rope of sunlight Tethered through my chest Shot clean through to my spine. Gordion knotted to my backbone. I can feel the knuckles of it Between my shoulder blades. Pinching rope with a yawn. No contortion reaches the lonely Mark, the treasure on a map. I have never begged for the sword, I never imagined needing it. My wrists are too weak, Sinew is salt, muscle manicled. Sometimes, as if in a dream The rope slackens as sunlight Slips beneath the sleep crusted eyelid of dusk. Dust on the windowsill dances—-Celebrating. Is it for me? A reverie? Or The potential, praise for one more day Unswept, unkempt, a knot of effort Unmassaged can swell to blackness.