Autobiographical Fragment

In those days I began to see light under every

bushel basket, light nearly splitting

the sides of the bushel basket. Light came

through the rafters of the dairy where the grackles

congregated like well-taxed citizens

untransfigured even by hope. Understand I was the one

underneath the basket. I was certain I had nothing to say.

When I grew restless in the interior,

the exterior gave.