Still one to one, I am
frozen inside the world 
of the poem. I desire
to make sense to the reader, yet
I am better off tucked behind
the trees in this forest. Build me
a ladder, would you? I’ll climb out
of this mess, freed
from the “bondage of self”
repeated in the Third
Step prayer. Never mind
if you are not privy, dear
reader, to the chill of folding
metal chairs in church
basements. We all descend
alone before we join a circle.