The Cartwheel

The sun has gone in. The world is feeding.
Cooing dove, hooing owl—
in the cooling light I am strange to them.
Every night I am carried to bed
light as unbaled hay.
Every day at the root of the elm
my child-seat waits in weeds—
Chokewort. Blackmouth. Bristle-burr.
Cloud bales load to the sky.
Arms and legs, I am spokes on a lawn
fresh-cut. Which way am I turning, which way
am I facing? Ground. Sky. Ground.