I walk out into the world and follow my shadow.
My shadow anticipates my every move.
It walks onto private property with impunity,
Patting the dog on the head.
My shadow peeks into open windows
And is sliced like bread by vertical blinds.
My shadow breaks into parked cars, diving through
Windows and emerging uninjured, hands empty.
My shadow enters the shadow of a house
And disappears and comes out a shadow wall
Where there is no door.
My shadow never talks about what it saw in there.
My shadow heads to the cemetery in the morning
While the light is low and its mind is long.
My shadow favors loblolly pines, because even
As tall old trees they are always learning to dance.
My shadow is clumsy too, it trips over gravestones
And slides down the grassy slope as if
Towards death. As if death were a game
That had an end. Or a goal. I turn around
And walk up the hill, dragging my shadow
Over the wet grass and home. It is at these times
My shadow wishes the clouds would come closer.
To the Tune of a Song Not Yet Written 
I walk up my own street after sunset.
The moon is not yet up and the last streetlight
is behind me. Slowly, slowly I trudge up the hill
and slowly, slowly my shadow fades into the dark bricks.
I have lost myself and where I am going
but with no streetlights the roof has been taken off
the world. If I stood still I could find and count a star
for each of the eighteen thousand days I have lived so far.
Here in the dark stretch of street they are with me.
With my shadow gone and the dark bricks
pretending not to move at the speed of stars.
In an Open Field
Late afternoon. The hills behind me
obscure the sun yet as I walk across the field
I can still see my shadow on the grass
a faint whisper of motion on the ground
always before me touching everything first
coloring every step I’m about to take
towards the new day so I turn around
it is still there larger and darker or is that the shadow
of what killed the old day standing up
to shrug off its sleep
Overcast Full Moon Rain
Does the insect know he has a shadow
or what it is cast from
When he moves from lamplight
and the moon cannot remember him
behind the scrim of rain and the shadow drifts
into illegibility does it add its unknowing
to the black page these lines are my shadow
are what the moon remembers