Self-Portrait in Labyrinth

We sit in the sun, knees up, and perhaps
there is an ocean if we are feeling

small—a field of birds shaken like a wet
sheet toward the sky if we are well. We come

to these places slowly, try to see what
is in front of us: a robin, the cat’s-

ear or hawk’s-beard, the harbor seals blobbing
the beach, or an otter making good use

of the pier in the late afternoon light.
We lose hold, sometimes, of the field, the ocean,

slip into the labyrinth of our one self.
Sometimes, the labyrinth is like the field,

the walls set far apart, and we don’t know
that we are lost until we find we cannot

sit as we are accustomed—pushed forward
by the roar of the beast whose home this is,

our guts rattled, the wide lane shook. There is
no golden thread, but we remember each

turn, each stone the mortar sets; we remember
when he built this maze inside of us,

unfolded himself to sit now at the center;
we remember, or try, the schooling birds,

their wingbeat a heart at rest; we remember,
or try, the salt wind. We fear there is a way

out, through the trembling corridor, the center—
the beast finally asleep — the scattered

bones—the beast before us. Whose face will it
wear? What good use will we make of our hands?