Agoraphobia

I want to open a door
            to my lonesome—
its courtship, its saltwater,
the chiming reeds, a wrung
lilypad on a rock. This place,
I cannot move from it. Or,
I don’t know what it would mean to move from it.
Placing my ear to the stilled neck
of the shore. Waiting. The Great Blue
Sitting, I call it. Foraging for sound,
for flashes of fish in the shallows.
Nothing, but the noise
of myself. Nothing, but my loneliness,
wading at my feet, a heronlet
learning to quiet.