Feet of Missouri clay and corn-silk stubble,
I rise barely a fence post above the earth
that holds me
like a bird
under a basket.
“Trim your nose hair,” I said, which was the first thing that came into my head.
I had indeed, just that morning, stood beneath the looming presence of my six-foot-something Jesuit superior, distracted from whatever platitude he recited for my own good by the several long gray tentacles curling out of the dark cavity of his nostrils like some underwater creature.