I rise naked each morning and stand
at the window with arms outstretched
and feet apart like da Vinci’s figure in the circle eight
and wait for the day’s attendance to dress me
in garments they choose for the morning—
a shroud one day, a coat of lead the next.
What a doll am I to these attendants
whose only task is to remind me
day after day of who I am:
the man or woman I think I’m not.