the stars that open and shut

fall on my shallow breast

like stars on a pool.

the soft wind, blowing cool

laps little crest after crest

of ripples across my breast.

and dark grass under my feet

seems to dabble in me

like grass in a brook.

oh, and it is sweet

to be all these things, not to be

any more myself.

for look,

i am weary of myself!