I march possessed towards myself,
Mirrors portraits and every angle, one nail and string,
hang of me along the hall.
At each door, I hear a pounding.
The carpet catches and greet my gate
and palms burn from the sudden ground;
The ready Hand to lift my Fall
Is not for me, I surely use my own,
and sing praise in thanks for the offer.
I trust my five and most my eyes
and trust that twenty one is enough
to know what should and could to turn
my life and bend as I find worth
My mirrors, persons, lists, and me along the hall,
yet at each door, a Figure stoops to wait.