in bare feet i want to run
sound of skin against hardwood, fleeting, fleeing
i want to hide in a too obvious place
the laundry basket in my closet
agonize for eternal minutes
hyper-alive, i want to turn off
with the solemn resolve of a crone
steeped deliciously in self-pity
holding quickened breath and fearing
the blood pounding in my ears
in the utter darkness
will give me away
even though already i want to be found
peering from my encampment to the
vertical strip of white giving away
muted shapes of loved ones seeking
their brazen little refugee
burst open, light
tugged out by slender wrists
and held tight
with no words
and that is my curse:
to be seen always as a child
dimples and all